Lonely Is a Word
Lonely is a word most of us
steer clear of – for fear it might
latch on and not let go.
Like saying it aloud or writing it
on a post-it will make it so,
and God that’s one thing we’d rather not be.
Lonely is a feeling that is heavy
and viscous and clogs the pathways to
our heart like cholesterol and yet
there’s no pill to make it go away.
Or a headache with an empty bottle
of aspirin – as it pounds out a rhythm
that no one can dance to and leaves
us empty in a corner of the room -
Waiting for the music to stop.
Hope
Hope rang my doorbell this morning.
Dressed up because it was Sunday. Holding
a small black bag filled with leaflets,
and brochures about vacations spots
where the weary could mingle and
find good reason to smile again.
She was nice and polite and asked if she
could come in. I said, I’d rather talk outside
in the sunlight. That all things considered,
I was doing alright. No need to worry. You can remove
me from whatever list I got myself on
over the past two years. Things are better now.
She thought that was grand. Though her
smile was weak and all too knowing –
like she had seen and heard the false high
before and knew when wishful thinking
was being mistaken for her.
It’s your own fault, I said deliberately, the way you
come and go. We need to cling to something,
when you’re not here, and if it’s not you,
what can it be?
Wishful thinking’s not such a bad thing, when
the hurting is high and the laughter in short supply.
She handed me her business card, said
she’d written her personal number on it.
To call anytime. That she’d been busier than
usual lately and was just starting to catch up.
I said – well, that’s hopeful. And we both had a
good laugh.
Love
Love’s a word we say too often, like please
and thank you; it slips out on its own
and enters the conversation like one
comma too many. We stop seeing it.
Too busy nodding and smiling and putting
the groceries away as Suzy bangs out
Bohemian Rapsody on the piano.
It’s lost the old Shelley and Byron panache.
The quaint – if moonbeams kiss the sea –
What is all this sweet work, if thou kiss not me?
The pounding of the heart as its embodiment
walks through the door and casts a hungry eye
upon you – breaking your resistance, like an
bullet through Hadrian’s wall.
Is it not passion that we long for? It’s willing
cohort, wrapping an easy arm around you, whispering
softly as you edge ever closer to the abyss, eyes
lost in expectation as the ground gives way,
and the raging waters below welcome you within.
Yes, all poetry, love is. And common sense.
And snow tires on icy roads. So, we don’t find
ourselves nose first in a drift, humming
Norwegian Wood, while AAA pulls us out
by our feet.
Excerpt from Love's Philosophy - Percy Bysshe Shelley
Norwegian Wood, of course by the Beatles.
Comments (1)
Top story material. Ah! Vocal. Touched my heart. My sentiments exactly. Loved it.