Everyone loves everyone
loved no one
but the one looking back
on a moonlit shore,
ignominiously,
the sure clarity of introspective
waves hurried away
like muddied thoughts
squealing downhill.
There is no one looking
for anyone on that shore,
moonlit for naught,
smooth sand unbothered
by footsteps or footsteps
following after,
just shadows cast
for the unenthused moon’s
enigmatic arithmetic.
Always we are shadows
scampering, scampering
off to our delicate garden.
We are the dancing dandelions
by the devilish prospect
of profit death delivers, delighted.
At once we make everything a poem.
There is love underneath love.
There is this, an ocean above.
How are we outnumbered
when all alone? And why must
contempt never be shown?
Categories:
unenthused, god, loneliness, lost love,
Form: Free verse
I see you there,
painting a literary facade,
thumbing through Cervantes
as though it has usurped your very being.
Your unenthused stance reveals your ruse
as do your constant glances in my direction.
In my quixotic state, I wonder if you
fancy me your Dulcinea
or if you merely question why
I scribble so wildly upon the page.
You, Sir, are my current inspiration
and I shall not tire until our story ends.
Peripherally I register how slowly you move
toward the books behind my chair.
I want to turn to you and recommend Solzhenitsyn,
third shelf down on the right;
but hesitate to be so revelatory
about my interests.
Now I feel your eyes discreetly moving
up and down my page,
ingesting my words.
Realization hits.
Our eyes meet.
Yours ablaze with the knowledge
of immortalization in my poetry,
mine wickedly feigning innocence.
You turn on your heels and stalk off,
undoubtedly in search of a windmill to best
for your lady fair.
Categories:
unenthused, imagination, life, on writing
Form: Free verse