Thought I’d write some blasted words
Of young love turned old and grey
And so I put on tangled up in blue
Hoping the muse would come past this away
But not much passes this way anymore
And all my exes eschew my zip code
Sometimes I’ll google a lady of the night
Hoping for just a little love a la mode
But after the passion storm abates
I’m still in Alexandria alone as ever
Maybe I can render this partitioned farce
Into another couplet fierce and clever
Or at least xomething polysyllabic
Or polyphonic to hold onto an AM radio past
So loaded up the merlot into the waiting glass—
Robert Zimmerman is such a blast
And DeGeneres can teach us to love one another
Without guile or an agenda smurfed and pc’d
But then she’s from New Wawlins, fer true—
Let’s squeeze a metaphor and make her bleed
So gel your foreign tense and parle
Come to Lafayette and pas de deux
Just passion danse on a dirt pad acadien—
You know you wanna two-step; yeah you do!
Some poems are wine lyric
Two goblets Clos du Bois
Others are simple syrup
Just so much blah, blah, blah
Now some too-humble wrought lines—
An old wrenched heart softly pines
Heart-tears gathering inside
Aching to let go and fall;
Words mocking a conscience
Of feelings so cold t’would appall
Terpsichore blanches, and then wilts,
Suffers in her marble a new deep fault:
Who can answer for these deaths?
Young stars ripped from the celestial vault
Haruka and Meechaiel pas de deux—
What are we all ever going to do?
The pain lingers…
The words won’t come…
Broken thoughts slip chalky fingers;
The glib finally struck dumb
How to unsee a sunset?
How to unhear the rain?
Where do we put these feelings?
Where do we plant the pain?
A far lightening pirouettes across your glance—
Dance for Haruka, dear friends…just dance
Stepping out onto the bare cliff face
The windswept girl looked askance:
Been a while since Cajun land
And firing up that two-step dance.
The poet reached out his one good hand,
But missy just followed the sun—
Watched it all the way to the evenset;
He wondered if all was over and done.
Chances are and chances’ll be
Swirling all about with the wind;
While Cajun girl browns look away
From the boy whose hazels seem kind.