Long Romanticize Poems
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Thinking of you
By Michelle Morris
12/05/2021
I was thinking of you today -
Wondering how different things could have been if you were still in the world right now?
Would we be a family together or separated by this pandemic or each other?
Would we all get along over time or would everyone get frustrated and walk away?
I miss you and often wish you were here to share special moments with me,
But I don't try to romanticize our relationship anymore:
I accept that you had your own life to live and you needed the space to heal yourself and find your own identity.
I was thinking of you today -
And I wonder if you look down from heaven and you think about us too?
© Michelle Morris, 2021
We have too little time not to use it wisely
I was enjoying lunch
a sandwich with some potato chip crunch
when it hit me like a rush
- I’m in a cult!
The girls at my table
Emma, Léah and Chloé,
my solid, study group three
all dress alike, more or less
we're all doing the same things
we study, laugh too loudly at nothing,
we romanticize burnout as a sort of chic
we compare our grades like horoscopes,
and we're all somewhere on the caffeine curve
To join our little group
you must know what an osmole is
and you must be slightly behind
but never admit how far
Like all cults there are rules,
we must pretend it’s all manageable,
and insist, to everyone, that “I’m fine.”
Emma says she dreams of Anki now.
Léah hasn’t texted her mother back in three weeks.
Chloé swears she’ll quit after this year,
which we all accept as part of the liturgy
because she's not even trying to leave.
As we eat, we scroll, and diagnose each other casually,
triaging the stages and conditions of early 20s life
“Did that guy ever call?”
It's hard to find a guy who understands
why you'd cancel plans to memorize something
We say, “it’s probably nothing”
with the authority of girls who know it's probably everything.
Anyway, my sandwich is gone, the chips too
someone mentions exams
(We’ve 13 days until first year final exams)
and we all stand up at once,
like we’ve heard a bell.
.
.
Songs for this:
BIRDS OF A FEATHER by Billie Eilish
WHERE IS MY HUSBAND! by RAYE
Fortnight (feat. Post Malone) by Taylor Swift
.
Anki - a flashcard app for spaced-repetition memorization
Our hearts romanticize the vagabond.
To walk away from all that brings you down.
It’s true we’re free to get up and be gone.
In search of new horizons to be found.
Always snipping at the ties that bind us
And doing all you would just as you may.
Worries can all just be left behind us.
‘Cause in the morn we simply walk away.
Dodging all responsibilities now.
There’s nothing holds you down or brings you back.
Thinking and just doing as you please now.
All you might need you carry in your pack.
But this, my curse, my cross: to always roam…
Cannot you feel my loss: O! Where is home?
Today,
The beggar woman on the corner held a sign that said:
"Dance Teacher, laid off, anything helps."
And in the 60 seconds my car sputtered indignantly beside her,
I watched the feral lines in her face
I imagined her skin was soft, and unobtrusively without confession
Swaddled in a thin gray sweater,
I romanticize,
That she threw this on, as she walked into the sharp Autumn air
Veiled in a gleaming burst of creativity.
Her body warm from her feet dragging across the floor
To the songs I secretly like
I ponder shamefully
How many pliés, and twirls and graceful arches with her arms
were made before tripping onto this corner?
Gossiping mouths of freeway on-ramps
That become our living rooms, kitchens and halls.
I love her anyway
When spectators throw dollar bills instead of roses
Out of cocoons
that smell of white mochas
I want someone to write me a love song, to sing the words that they feel for me deep inside, I came close to this wish, once upon a time
Although your words weren’t a love song, they were in the way that you spoke them to me, words of how you loved me so much, and wanted nothing more than to have your arms wrapped around me
I want someone to mean the words that they say, not just tell me these beautiful words and then in the end walk away
I want someone to play romantic music and lay rose petals all around, I want the fairytale that you never got to make come true, I wish that I could have that now
See that is why being without you is so hard for me, because you were the only one in my life that in any way showed me these things could be
Who knows the things that you would have done if we could have been together, I just keep envisioning you brightening my days for all of forever
I just want someone to romanticize me and hold me in their arms and tell me they love only me, and that is why this hurts so much, and the reason I want to cry, I had this with you right before you said goodbye
You held me in your arms and you slowed danced with me in an empty room, you made music from the sound of your heart beating for me, back then when what you felt for me was true
I want those words back, I want those arms, I want that warm embrace, I want those eyes to gaze into, I want to see that handsome face
I want you to lift me in your arms and touch me so softly, I want to hear you whisper into my ear that you love me
I want the gentle side of you, I want the broken side too, I want everything that you are, I want someone, I just want you.
I’ve visited some writers’ homes
And what I love the best
Is not the room where they relaxed
Or ate or slept or dressed…
But rather where they sat and wrote –
Their typewriter and desk
And what their window framed,
Often a view most picturesque.
Today it was Pearl Buck’s estate
And staring at the keys
Of the Royal perched upon her desk
(She’d brought from overseas)…
I realized it won’t be the same
For authors of today.
To gawk at someone’s iPad
Will the fans come out and pay?
Perhaps I do romanticize
But there’s a certain charm
To a writer’s clacking which, alas,
A P.C. does disarm.
I write my illusions, not out of cowardice, but from that stubborn mercy
I owe to my own spirit that withers under the weight of time,
reality, with its arithmetic of pale bones, rarely adds up to salvation,
it's merely a tally of sorrows, debts of silence, and interest paid in insomnia,
I lie to myself, not to deceive, but to survive the blade of truth,
my dishonesty is a scaffold built from the soft feathers of hope,
a counterfeit sky that holds when the real one collapses under burdens,
every word I engrave is a refusal to let the world have the last word,
in ink, I orchestrate a better version of the collapse, making ruins shine,
making pains sing like choirs of angels lost in the night,
I romanticize the pain, dress despair in velvet metaphors and crown it,
thus I can bow to its tyranny and find my release in illusions,
perhaps it is a delusion, but do not call it unskillful,
I have mastered the art of making fiction seem more loyal than reality itself,
my illusions breathe not in the lungs of truth, but in the marrow of unyielding desire,
and isn't desire also a form of sincerity, a truth told to keep the light close,
yes, I write illusions, for I have discovered more sincerity in a crafted dream
than in the rough hands of unpolished truth, and sometimes, when the world grips my throat,
my lies become the only breath that allows me to speak and live.
Nobody applauds the valley.
Nobody posts the nights
when the ceiling feels closer than the sky
and your prayers sound like static.
We want the spotlight.
The trophy.
The soft landing.
But nobody wants
the blistered hands.
See,
we romanticize the view
but curse the mountain.
We beg for strength
then resent the resistance.
Ask for growth
but complain about the growing pains.
And life just stands there like
You can’t have one without the other.
Because accomplishment
without adversity
is just decoration.
It looks good.
It photographs well.
But it doesn’t mean anything.
Meaning is carved.
Into bone.
Into backbone.
Into “I almost gave up but I didn’t.”
Hardship is the chisel.
Trials are the hammer.
And you
You are the stone
becoming something worth remembering.
You don’t appreciate water
until you’ve known thirst.
You don’t appreciate light
until you’ve walked blind through your own doubt.
And you don’t appreciate the summit
until your legs have trembled
and your lungs have burned
and you’ve whispered,
“Just one more step,”
to a version of yourself
that didn’t believe you could take it.
The valley isn’t punishment.
It’s preparation.
It teaches you how to breathe thinner air.
How to carry your own weight.
How to build muscle where fear used to live.
Because when you finally stand at the top
when the thing you prayed for
is finally in your hands
You won’t just celebrate it.
You’ll understand it.
And that understanding?
That’s what makes it sacred.
So don’t curse the climb.
The mountain isn’t in your way.
It’s shaping you
into someone
who can handle the view.
It seems an eternity, waiting
for the cows to come home.
They never will, and so why
do I wait so long to take a hard look at myself?
Mirrored reflections caught in the bourbon glass,
fractured and foggy.
We drank more than our share last night,
and my memory fell down the stairs,
rolling with the bottles,
bruised,
yet always out of reach,
a blue moon waning in the distance.
The 1960s hover,
phantoms of a past we romanticize,
awaiting their return as if
a forgotten song might suddenly play,
but we can never go back,
to flower power,
to protests in the park,
to nights where anything seemed possible.
Lost in the haze of our youth.
I await their return other things,
like an old friend who swore to come back,
but never did.
Promises dissolving ithinvair,
like smoke rings we blew into the night sky.
And here I stand,
waiting,
for the cows that never come home,
for the past that never repeats,
for the moment I finally look,
deep into my own eyes,
and see not what was,
but what is,
and what might be.
Have you had a dinner overlooking Rome?
A quiet, garden setting, where you two are alone?
Darkened bushes, candlelit table, with tiny lights all aglow,
romanticize the setting, as we all know.
Start with a glass of a fine red wine,
aged just right, and sweet as the vine.
A little Antipasto is what I certainly would say,
Cheeses, Salami, Pepperoni, and Flatbreads all go a long way.
A Caesar Salad prepared at your table side and done,
by a young Brazzi look alike, with a certainty of perfection.
The glass of a fine white wine will next set the pace,
changing the evening, while staying in place.
The Entree ordered is a delicious Piece of Sole,
large enough to share, baked to its flaky goodness in whole.
Asparagus Spears, Broccoli, or Italian Beans simmered with soy,
could all be accepted as Side Dishes with our fish to enjoy.
Tiramisu for her, Creme Brule' for me with its golden crown,
with an Ice Wine to wash these tasty Desserts down.
Then a Latte or Cappuccino might just do,
with some Creme Sherry to finish the mood.
A short romantic walk to the Trevi 'neath Rome's idyllic moon,
means that our dinner has ended all too soon.
Our "Special Evening" however, is only done,
When we later make love to each other...uniting as one.
written: 10/25/15