Mario - You and my husband should get together. :) I'm sending him your poem.

All the others so full of pain and longing. Posting so late, because this was another hard one for me and also I got lost reading all of these fabulous poems. I am in awe of the talent here.:)


Longing for New Love

Bring me back to new love
enrobing me in a bouquet
of fresh wants
ordered by the mirrored
desires of my beloved
Two existing as one
in all ways
as if each body
opened and engulfed
the other. Love so greedy
it demanded emotions too
new to examine. Wearing
each need as an experiment
as the lovers sleep walk
between reality in
a cloud of fulfillment

It’s a giving time when neither
lover wishes the other to know
the real person who lies beneath
the robe of dreams
placed on the other.
It’s a magical time unlike anything
envisioned in previous thoughts

You crave your lover as
a rich piece of chocolate
Devouring each other as if
there were no tomorrow.
Relinquishing the other
for a second is devastating
to both. Magnetized you cling
for minutes. Lips and tongue explore
until you can barely breathe. Taking a
gulp of air and plunging back into the
cotton candy of this feeling.

Sensitized - even the touch of his finger
draws you to his body to devour each
new plane and crevice and your days
are spent with this tender exploration
of which the two of you never tire. No
bed is too rough for you have the
comfort of each other and that mad
passion that uncontrollable urge
to pounce each time he is near
propels you whether the blanket
be velvet green grass whose
new mown aroma intoxicates you
Or the gravel beneath the hedges
where you fall in passionate
embrace hidden from the world
In your own dimension unaware
of the rough surface as the
smooth skin of your lover takes
you to another plane.

I don't know what happened to the other poems. They were here when I posted this and now they're gone. All I did was post my poem. Yikes!!!!
Where did they go?

Robert - Somewhere around 3:45 A.M. Eastern, all the comments on this post disappeared (I swear, it wasn't me). Hope id-ing the time might help find them -

Runneth Over

White like little stone markers of
Endings. That one, when he tried to
Climb the so-called child-proof gate.
That, when the manx started eating the
Daffodils. I wouldn't have cared
Until she knocked the vase over
So as to have them a la carte
The laundry timer going
Off in my ear like
An uncouth bomb.
The cluster of three:
the pediatrician reschedules,
The meeting's run over,
The oven timer.
Client needs it three days early,
When three days ago
Is yesterday.
That one - I need a mommy kiss now!
Finger held up in the universal
Owie Emergency Signal.
So close - point - but
UPS came with an order of
Diapers, one day only sale.
Yes, I live in a graveyard
Of unfinished coffees.
How I have forgotten
What the bottom tastes like
When it's too fresh to have
Become bitter.

The Wagon

It must have been a hundred times
he pressed his nose to the glass,
staring at the wagon in the window,
as he did each time he passed.
It was big and red and shiny,
gleaming in the afternoon sun,
And he dreamed of all the things
they'd do, whether working or in fun.
The store owner asked him in one day,
just to take a look around,
Hesitant, he mumbled and shuffled,
dug his toe into the ground.
"Haven't got the money," he finally
admitted. "Doesn't cost to look,"
said the man. So he entered the door
to Nirvana, that was all it took.
He felt his heart grow inside him,
trembling he reached out a hand,
felt the smoothly hardened steel,
and oh, the feeling was grand.
He smelled the new rubber smell
of tires, set with silver hubcaps,
where he saw his own face reflected,
and drew his head back with a snap.
"Made just for you," the man said.
He nodded, he felt the same.
Then ran for the door, out of the store,
to get home before the tears came.
It took days to muster the courage
to do what he so longed,
to return to the store and look once more--
but his beautiful wagon was gone!
The shock, the pain, the horror,
the trauma so very great
as could only be felt in deepest depths
of the heart of a boy at eight.
He slowly turned and walked homeward,
sniffling with tears in his eyes.
Oh if he'd known the fate of that wagon,
now wrapped up as his birthday surprise.
######


Love Affair

She watches as he walks away,
willing him to look back;
knowing he won't, knowing he can't.
This is only a dream without words.
There will be no farewell gesture,
no wave, no word of good bye,
when there was really never an hello.
#####




Wow! I thought I was losing it! All those posts earlier and now this. Where'd they go? Poetry Gremlins? If you have to post a poem again does that make it "re-verse"? ;)

I just checked again to see if they returned. I thought it was closer to when I posted, because I was reading them up to the time I posted. This is really freaky!!! The mystery of the missing poems!!!

Hold Me
Hold Me

Hold me. Enfold me.
Never let me fall.
Keep me safe.
Keep me close.
Don't get sick.
Don't get hurt.
Don't die. Don't die.
Hold me. Enfold me.

this time
I thought
it had happened
I so much wished for it
to have happened

I can see the two of us
becoming three
I want this
so much
it hurts

but all we can do
is keep on trying
and waiting…

*****
Actually, the only thing I am longing for right now is a dry tent (it‘s raining cat and dogs here at the renaissance fair) and warm feet, but that didn‘t seem very poetic...

Longing theme.

Separated by a glass mirrored world

looking but never seeing
reading between lines
of magical interludes,
bubbles in time.
Limitless silent space
between worlds.
Languishing wistfully
yearning for acknowledgement
thirsting for liquescent
drought-ending love.
Infatuated reflections
merge ridiculous notions
eidelon idol
favourite familiar.
Tantalising temerity
aspiring to be the eye of the beholder.

Coveting thy neighbours life

Curved two seater in polished wood
A sprinkling of apple blossoms
on the path to double french doors,
your shoes and his pair each others
I see your coffee maker - an italian
holiday souvineur, your blinds half
closed, inviting me to stare,
wishing I was the one you envied.

REPOSTING


You

Monday through Friday thrills me
I get to see you for the week
Saturday, you’re back with your family
Sunday, I’m anxious for Monday
It arrives and I’m thrilled
Not that you notice or care
Gods knows I’ve tried not to love you
You, who are married to someone else
Only my mind holds you, is near to you
Until reality demands I take notice

REPOSTED: yesterday's has wandered away into the ether for some reason.


I've got the music in me.


I dream in phrases of technicolor music
singing sultry stanzas
awakening my magic
so I dance through fields
of flowering lavender
watching poppies droop their heads
in time as I couple with crotchets
to bring forth crescendos,
Salltarellos, twisting,
diving, fuguing,
and all I can feel is bright music
in my blood and in my skin
tingling, effervescing, telling
the story of my heart in a way
that words never can,
never will,
no matter how I try
after I wake up.

a repost due to the Mystery of the Missing Poems:

I Have this Ticket

I have this ticket here to see you for Mother's Day, departing
May 8th from Geneva, and staying through May 14th,
to celebrate your 87th birthday.

I think it's safe to say that you will probably not see
another birthday, though it's hard to write that down.
But we don't need doctors to tell us what's in plain sight.
I know you are leaving me soon.

I saw it in January, in the round resignation of your shoulders.
You just want to go home, and I don't blame you.
You're entitled to a grand exit. You bore five of us kids;
you gave good love to two good husbands.
You taught me so much about being a friend.
Whenever people at your church took sick,
you were the first to bring endless casseroles and chicken soup.
You have been so brave and strong through so many hard things.
And now you are only half the size you were when you
brought me into this world. Since the stroke in December,
you weigh eighty pounds. Your body is receding along with your
mind; it's only natural your spirit would want to follow.

And that's why I knew I had to see you. No matter what it took.
At first I asked my stepsister if she would read the poem I wrote
for you, when she visits you in Mystic next week. And then I realized, no.
I have travelled all over the country for my work;
written words of passion so actors could read them to total strangers.
But this time, I can spend $1,000 to read a poem to you
on Mother's Day, even if I have to fly from Geneva to do it.
It's a poem about Grandma's wooden spoon.
Too many people wait 'til the funeral to visit, too late to say
"I love you." And so I decided I would make
the effort now. Lots of other people can go to your funeral.
But I'm the only one who can read this poem for you.

You were so excited when I told you.
Every day now on the phone you ask: "What day will you get here?"
And everyday, up 'til now, I said: "Don't worry.
We'll be together soon!"

But now the unthinkable has happened, and I am up against
a ticking timebomb. Everywhere people are worried;
a grim tally of death is updated hourly on the news.
Whole cities are being shut down; they're even talking
about closing airports. And perhaps by the date
of my flight, there will be no way to get to you.
Nothing like this has happened in the world, Mama,
Since you were four years old.

And now I will never hear that story. I will probably never kiss
the soft, powdery skin of your forehead again; never brush back
your grey hair so that I can say softly in your ear:
"Goodnight, Mama. Sweet dreams,"
as I gently lift your hollow body into bed.

How can I tell you that I can't come now? And how can I explain
why? You have already known so much fear in your life;
so much fear and disappointment.
I don't want to burden you now with this.

Or maybe I can make a run for it, try to slip through?
I can change my ticket, run very, very fast there.
But then: can I get back again in time before all hell
breaks loose? My children need me here,
on the other side of the world from you.
If I go to you now, the door may close behind me,
and how will I ever get back to this place
that is not my real home?

Mama, I want you to know, I will always take good care
of Grandma's skillet and her wooden spoon.
I will never, ever wash them,
just like you said.

c 2009 by Madeline Strong Diehl

posted 4/27 on PAD Challenge at 6 p.m. EST

To know the warmth of your embrace,
a love that time cannot eclipse.
To exist simply just to taste
the nectar of your lips.
To see the passion in you eyes
and feel your heartbeat race with mine.
To know that there will be no more goodbyes.
To see that long sought after sign.

To throw this old facade away
and find myself in you at last.
A warm, safe haven from the fray,
a refuge from the past.
All that our love would hold in store
and all it would inspire.
All of this and nothing more
is all that I desire.

Longing
knots the stomach
strings emotions out
edges nerve endings
close to panic
bleeds from the heart
holds onto hope
even when there is
none

~~

Length of Night

The winds blistering the pane
Blowing, twisting visibility

Refusing to give up driving on

Rains deep soaking weight
Running for the weaken places

Drawing down well rooted promise

Against others toppling all around
Overloaded ground so soaked

We rapt, cluster, grasp what matters

Through storms and pain slashing
Fast and faster battering our home

Inside defending life together

In the face of staying power
Darkness dissipates and leaves transparent

Separation

We sit
apart
talking,
hoping,
by chance
a glance
will come our way.

The brief
touch
of a fingertip.
Coolness
against
the skin.

But no touch,
no glance,
comes
so we sit,
apart.

--Once more, with feeling :^)



Longing for Hades

Night. Cold as ash, cold as ocean deep, come,
collect me: cells, bone, teeth.

Creep beneath moon snarled
in shade of night,
primrose, jasmine, sickly scent
seep under borders brambled
vigilant heart keeper;
through garden bare
of heliopsis, daylily,
glory of morning
prostate to light.

Come.
Collect me.





--

Peace, Linda

The poetry monster must have come through overnight! Here' my reposting...


I Must Be Dreaming

When the class is begun
All their homework is done
And out on their desks to be graded.
Every book’s in its place
There’s a smile on each face
As the kids start their warm-up unaided.

No one asks me for paper
No one’s focus will taper
As my class breezes through their first mission.
When we move to the next –
Different page in the text,
I’m awed by their easy transition.

And the best part of all,
When directions I call
Only once are those orders repeated.
No more, “What did you say?”
And no child led astray
By distractions that leave them depleted.

When the books are withdrawn,
And the work is hands-on
Hands are not on one’s next-door neighbor.
All their talk is of math
Not of romance or wrath,
Or what happened last week to Max Tabor.

When I ask kids to share
The day’s work they’ve prepared
Every hand in the class is uplifted.
All their eyes are on me
(Not their friends, nor debris)
And no one’s attention has drifted.

And the piece de resistance
(Since I’m listing my wants)
Is that time flex its limits each day.
Like a lithe rubber band
It should shrink or expand
Until each gets the concepts conveyed.

WAITING

I am sitting here, waiting,
watching for the sight of you.
I'm sure you will be here any minute,
here where I am waiting.

This sweet anticipation
has me very eager to see you again.
Here where I sitting.
Sitting here and waiting.

I feel it build, this hunger I have
for just the sight of you,
You will satisfy this yearning
with just your reemergence here where I am waiting.

And the you enter.
Your ice blue eyes look my way,
the sight of you is satisfying.
As our eyes meet, you smile.

That smile, full of warmth
and loaded with personality,
seems to brighten the room
with its very presence.

Slowly, you saunter my way.
You carry yourself proud and high,
over to where I am waiting.
And you come to stop and stand before me.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting long." you apologize.
"Oh no, you were well worth the wait" comes my reply.
You lean in close and splay your wares
across the table before me, where I am waiting.

The feast that you present to me is delectable,
you with those eyes and that smile,
you excuse yourself and take your leave
to return once more to warm me up again.

"Is everything all right?" you coo.
"Everything is wonderful.
This is the best steak I've had in a while!
Thank you for being my server today, Nicole."

And you smile.
And you continue waiting
just as you had been waiting on me.
You deserve a generous tip.

Longings

I long to look into my daughter’s eyes and see happiness,
To look into my son’s eyes and see peace,
To look into my grandchildren’s eyes and see laughter,
To look into my brother’s eyes and see ambition,
To look into a stranger’ eyes and see recognition,
To look into the Lord’s eyes and see forgiveness.
I long to hug Joe and mom who are gone.

Someday

She would catch sight of him
Once in a while,
Little blond head hiding
Around the paper towels corner
In the supermarket--
Or swaddled in a towel,
dangling his feet in a swimming pool
on a hot summer day

She never told people
That she could see him
Waiting to be born
Patiently watching her
Pick up groceries
And write papers, pay bills
attend to less
Important things--

Things that moved time
Back and back.

In Spring


In spring, you may find yourself
tearing through the closets, looking for
a harmonica, or maybe a faded
picture of a homecoming couple
circa 1979. While doing this you
will find a dried-up fountain pen
that belonged to your grandfather
and an action figure in battle
armor and missing its head. Then
you will see the ties reaching down
from their hanger and start to recall
all the places you used to go with
them looped around your neck
and you’ll hear a riff from a
melody that you makes your lips
move automatically, as though
you are a dummy on some larger
power’s lap. Then your hand will
pop open like a blossom and you’ll
reach—there’s nothing in front
of you, but still your hand will
extend to the length of your arm.
You’ve forgotten what you’re
looking for, but the desire for it
is so strong, better you go for a
long walk, because you know where
the crowbar is and the floorboards
seem to be concealing something
you gotta have.

Wow! That's pretty weird. But, okay. Here are my two from yesterday (and I hope nothing gets 'eaten' today):

1.
Oh How I Long to Get into a Thong

So, I wish my thighs were thinner
both the outer and the inner.
And I crave a butt that’s rounded
nicely, but it’s not. Confound it!
How do supermodels do it?
(Or is this just how I view it?)
But if I were svelte and well-built
I could eat without the hell-guilt
and still fit into size zed, see...
Not like what I am instead, see?


2.
A Long(ing) Fib

He
longs
for her
number so
he can call her up
and ask her to go out with him
on a breathtaking, mind-blowing, incredible date.
The only thing is, she hasn’t given it to him yet and she probably will not.

Someone's eating my poetry!



I Must Be Dreaming

When the class is begun
All their homework is done
And out on their desks to be graded.
Every book’s in its place
There’s a smile on each face
As the kids start their warm-up unaided.

No one asks me for paper
No one’s focus will taper
As my class breezes through their first mission.
When we move to the next –
Different page in the text,
I’m awed by their easy transition.

And the best part of all,
When directions I call
Only once are those orders repeated.
No more, “What did you say?”
And no child led astray
By distractions that leave them depleted.

When the books are withdrawn,
And the work is hands-on
Hands are not on one’s next-door neighbor.
All their talk is of math
Not of romance or wrath,
Or what happened last week to Max Tabor.

When I ask kids to share
The day’s work they’ve prepared
Every hand in the class is uplifted.
All their eyes are on me
(Not their friends, nor debris)
And no one’s attention has drifted.

And the piece de resistance
(Since I’m listing my wants)
Is that time flex its limits each day.
Like a lithe rubber band
It should shrink or expand
Until each gets the concepts conveyed.

Cats and Hot Water

A month away from home is not so long…
…and Barcelona is such a beautiful, exciting city
The people I’m with are interesting and fun
The course I’m on is hard but challenging
And after all this is an adventure
But still…

The photo my mother sent to my phone
My two sweet kitties together on my bed
Makes the missing of them harder
As I know they are missing me
Snuggling together
Sleeping together
Only two when it should be
We three

My host is kind and generous
Welcoming beyond need
The apartment is comfortable
The bathroom perhaps a little small
After all I’m used to so much space…
I shower everyday
Oh! But to have a bath!
An hour of soaking luxuriously
Listening to the blues or jazz

I long for the time when I will make the move
And live in this great city permanently
I’d like a central flat
Shared of course with Pickle and Charlie
And it would have to have a bath
Because right now all I really long for is
Cats and Hot Water


Iain

Youth

He remembered the vitality
The days when he could do anything
Running, jumping, playing
There were no limits

No consequences for long days
Spent with friends
Hiking, climbing, riding
His energy was boundless

Now he must choose
Pick an activity and time
The aches and pains
Make him long for the early days

Dear Moosehead,
I long for peace and quiet
from your half-wit sister and your
crazy mother. I long for revenge
against the Red Sox. I long for a
team that can actually perform. What
the hell is going on this year? I have
long longed for the bankruptcy and
demise of the Mets. I long for idiots
on Fifth Ave. to get into my cab with
something smaller than a $100 bill.
I ache deep inside to spend my days
doing lucrative airport runs on tunnels
and bridges clear of grid-lock. Every
fibre of my being yearns to see a road
victory up in Detroit. We can watch it
at the sports bar where you cousin works
(if you can call what she does working!)
Right now I long for chilli-dogs and beer
so I’ll pick ya up at seven.

Yours clutching at straws and dreams

Ringo the Howler

Ginger Beer Summers

I hark back to the
Ginger Beer Summers
Of my youth
Picnics in parks
With a pretty girl
In a floral dress
Whispers and giggles
Holding hands
On the Backs of Cambridge
Cream teas in Ye Olde Tea Shoppe
Walking at night
Moonlight and mystery
Music ringing in our ears
Recalling concerts
Making memories
River boat rides
That last all night
Watching the dawn
Kissing good morning
Pony-tails and smiles
New jeans and cheesecloth
Long cold glasses
Full of ice and mint
And Ginger Beer

Iain

Youth

He remembered the vitality
The days when he could do anything
Running, jumping, playing
There were no limits

No consequences for long days
Spent with friends
Hiking, climbing, riding
His energy was boundless

Now he must choose
Pick an activity and time
The aches and pains
Make him long for the early days

"Longing"

to not simply
hurry
from one moment
to the next
but to live
in the moment
that moment
is gone
and so is this

longing is the
shortening
of life
by trying to live
in a place
or time
where you
are not

Reposting cause it seems my poem is gone
Originally posted 4/27/2009 4:42:55 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)
Longing

I want to be slim
I want to be trim
I want to be happy
I want to dress snappy
I want to dance
I want romance
I want lots of money
I want someone to call me honey
I want to be smart
I want to collect art
I want to be a looker
I want to be a good cooker
I want a good home
I want a vehicle with lots of chrome
I want a fancy motorcycle
I want to recycle
But mostly I long
Just to feel I belong

As the deer longs for the water brook, so my soul longs for you oh Lord
Psalm 42
Where We Search

Eating flowers,
Singing in the tops of trees,
Lying under bushes looking up,
Talking to birds.

Pulling on tight jeans,
Smoking weed,
Touching the forbidden,
Being touched.

Scheduling the children,
Teaching Sunday school,
Picking perfect stocks’
Feeding the lawn.

Watching endless news,
Sitting late with vodka,
Yoga class, acupuncture,
Book club, golf, until we

Find ourselves old, and once again eating flowers
Singing and lying under bushes
Looking up, talking to birds,
Talking to God.

I Want To Be Like Mike
**************************

I am a high school drop out

I am looking for a career

I have a job at Dollar General and

I live with my girlfriend’s folks


I want to drive a Maybach

I want a house in the Hollywood Hills

I want to dance at The Derby

I want to own my own jet

I want to sing for my supper and

I want to sign autographs for drinks



I want an apartment on Park Avenue

I want to marry a cover girl

I want to have lunch at Twenty-One

I want to wear designer clothes and

I want to be the designer


I want to fire Donald Trump

I want to breathe his rarified air

I am an American

I am a high school drop out and

I want to be like Mike.

Its longing runs deep
the rose cherishes the rain
but needs the sun's kiss

All of My Longings

I want to know
that the next time I see my father
will not be the last time

I want to see
my son reach for the stars
and succeed in all he sets out to do

I want to know
total, all consuming love -
love that is fully trusting and understanding

I want to sway gently in my macrame chair
that hangs under my deck
and watch as birds come to the feeder that's only a few feet away

Just once
(just one more time, please Lord)
I want to wear a size 8 again

I want to believe (but it's hard to do)
that some day, some year
people will stop saying they've seen Elvis

I would like it very much
if people would stop saying we have a black President
and instead refer to Mr. Obama as he really is - a bi-racial President

And it would suit me nicely
if my sex drive would return and if I could stop being so cranky
while menopause lingers on (damn I hate menopause)

Our Menacing Porch

A wicker loveseat
chairs my favorite woodworker (my husband) made
green shoots popping out of clay pots
just enough sun
and just enough shade
so welcoming
appearing innocent
yet daily reminding me that there’s not enough time
to sit, sip a glass of wine,
and savor the moment

A Love unmentioned

she longs for him
he longs for her
the fire between them
will always burn
niether of them
will take a turn

she longs for him
to take her by the hand
and lead to a place
where only love can grow
she stands still

he longs for her
to come to him
to be with him
forever more
he stands alone

their love grows more
as each day passes
but they plant their feet
and take no chances

Tears

I find it hard to believe my eyes
As I watch with utter disappointment
So many are drifting away
So many walking the wide road
Following the easy path
Straight to their own destruction

I find it hard to realize
That the world that I once walked
Would once again turn against me
As they did two millennia ago
Before they knew me that well
Before I died on the cross
Before I rose from the grave
And proved I was the Only Way

America, I have blessed you abundantly
I have lifted you to the leader of the world
All the while you lifted me in praise
But as of late
As of the last half century
You have turned against me
To the point that I have stepped away
Only to watch you sink to the lowest of lows
Your leaders steadily pushing me away
Your leaders spreading corruption
Your leaders now on their own
And failing fast

I weep
As even my people cannot unite
Infighting and bickering over differences
Differences conjured up by Satan’s helpers
Differences that can’t be found in my Bible
Differences that divide at a time when
All my people need to unite

And so, I wait
For my people to unite
Or for America to sink into nothingness
Or, perhaps, for me to take my people away
And leave the world to write its own history
A history already written in my Bible
A history known to me from the beginning
Predictions I didn’t want to come true
This early
Yet, is seems to be heading that way

So, I watch
I wait
And I weep for mankind

As for my people
You should watch for me
It won’t be long now

Lost and Found

I looked for you in
summer-tall grass.

Found only the whispers,
the stir of green blades.

I looked for you in
ocean’s low tides.

Found only the shells,
small creatures lost in salt sea.

I looked for you in
poet’s lyric songs.

Found only the whispers
past love in verses bound by strong chains.

I looked for you in
places you will never be.

Found instead the shadow—
my own fragments, stirring in rebirth.

Carol A. Stephen
April 27, 2009
PAD Challenge poem REPOST

Re-post :-)

“To Be Me”

Slim sexy
is hidden
somewhere
inside me

Yet…

Tight jeans
tank tops
full figure
disagree

And….

The mirror
won’t show
the image
I feel

But…

Wanting a
thing won’t
make it
real

So….

Cover myself
with an
oversized
shroud

Or…

Become
who I am
turned inside
out.

Longing…

Longing for humanity
I got
Revenge of the pigs
In digs like fluffy white bread buns
Slaughtered in filth and forgetfulness
Blue eyed love in pink skin
And snouts of gentle wetness
Muddy screamings of
Sausaged greed and
Hulls of horned hoofed gelatin
Hatschu…sniff sniff…
Gesundheit!
Blessed are the innocent

Longing


Longing was a once

we stood on the earth

where ancestors danced

lost languages filling our mouths

we were willing to die

for small, furry bits

of mammalian flesh

and then and then and then

our final song sputtering

while we wait for something

a cab or communion

TIDES (A Haiku)
(c) 2009 - G. Smith
-------------------
As the waters rise
To the moon’s caress, so I
Long to be with you.

Stakeout by Rebecca Chasteen

Standing at the periphery
I know you know
I want you to see
I'm watching
everything
waiting for my opportunity
to slip into
the inner circle
be folded in
to the pages
of history with you

Reposting from April 27 ...


Scheherazade


The man in the chair beside me wears a hat that says Cancer Sucks,
given to him by his wife, who thought people might better understand
why he looks the way he does, which is to say haggard and down a few pounds.

The day you got your diagnosis, you apologized to the doctor,
who was young enough to be your daughter and only the stethoscope
gave away the clue that she had any business with your body.

She gave you two months. You took them, bargaining for time
with forgiveness. So now we come daily to the clinic where
they have marked your skull with a treasure map to wellness.

Your face has become the moon, and beautiful young men
visit you, acting out a drama they can’t believe unfolds.
You wear men’s boxers for comfort, your painted boots in August.

All your hats are hanging by the door. These last summer days
are the hottest; only a fan keeping a boundary between your room
and the white heat rising from the pavement. We tell stories,

words to make you well: language we had used in hushed tones
to talk of other women. Oh Scheherazade.
Tell me the bedtime prayers that will keep the story from ending.

Chocolate Cake

Sitting, waiting
endless days go by
sunrise, sunset, darkness
light again

Please, hear me scream!
I am soft, sweet, brown,
the last survivor
from the Sweet 16 party,
candle wax drips still present

Please, hear me scream!
eat me before I get stale.

End the Pain of Living

The longing for a restful sleep
Not tied up in the worries of living,
Paying the bills, facing emergencies.
All done alone.

The aches and pains that come with age.
My left elbow acquired arthritis.
My vision has deteriorated.
My liver wants to stop working.

I long to end the pain of living,
But, I'm no fool.
Better a painful existence
Than nothing at all.

My pain is nothing compared
To what others suffer.
I know that deep in my heart.
Still, I long not to suffer the pain of living.

When it comes
It will be too soon
No matter how old I am
Or how much pain I experience.

The Heat My Mother Knew

The furnace is slow coming on,
so I stand at the stove in my January coat, waiting
for the oven to warm, waiting
to make breakfast. And it's these chilly spring
Connecticut mornings that make me long
for the heat my mother knew
living just outside of Andalusia. The heat
that made her visiting from-up-north cousins turn
their backs on their birthplace, swear that
when they were old enough they'd move
down to Alabama and never look back; they were
fed up with the stinging wind and the snow.
But my mother, too, was fed up with her own town,
the slow pace and the day to day sameness.
She wanted a change and in the middle
of the living room one day she broke the news
to her family, said she was going to go
live with relatives up in Hartford, bought
herself a heavy coat —then she split.
"What was she thinking? Why did she go?" the whole
town asked, wanted to know what I want to know,
today, as I lean on the stove, lost in a dream about
burning up and sweating, fanning myself and panting
in my mother's mother's kitchen that must be hot
already from the morning sun.

We Like Ice Cream

Car hop’s breasts
two luscious scoops
tempting tongue to taste
years not yet melting

ALL her skin.

My husband’s eyes
reading the menu
groaning a sigh
as one who hungers

GUILTY as sin.

My shoulder cold
with envy chilling
twisted cones ordered
with a whore-frost stare

His ice SO thin.

Hiding her chest
behind cream and cone
our backseat infant
demands all attention.

INNOCENT at the drive-in.

INNER FIRE

The evening falls and yet the sun still shines.
It is an internal sun, one that had been plucked from your eyes
and placed tenderly in my heart,
warming my being with a glow of tremendous love.
Love is a form of fire,
starting from a minute spark.
The result of two unflinching hearts contacting each other.
The initial skip of a sparkle of light from one soul to another
catching a cold ember and striking life into it.
And the ember glows.
It glows and smolders with a quietly inner heat
unknown to the both of us.
But within time, the fire is inextinguishable,
left to conflagrate unbridled.

Ode to a Chocolate Donut

How do I love thee?
Well, let me tell you how.
I love you
from the tip of my tongue
to the curl of my intestines.
I love you
from the drips of chocolate frosting,
falling over your rounded sides,
to the hollow emptiness at your center.
I love you
from the chewiness of the first bite,
to the crumbs I lick from my plate.
And though my
donut days are done,
and I am doomed to carry on alone,
I fondly remember the Sunday mornings
we spent together, before
my metabolism
died

Deep Longing

I spent years
distracting myself
from this need

to extract the
stories I live,

plant them
firmly
on paper,

and

sprinkle

them

upon

the

world.

[Poet's note: Dedicated to my three angels in heaven... I've been trying to have a 3rd child for six years. In that time I've had three miscarriages... this poem is about that loss and the longing for a baby.]

For Want of a Baby

In the dream, it’s a girl. Tiny, bundled in soft yellow.
Her eyes are closed, and just as I readjust my arms,
cradling her, she opens her little mouth into a long,
deep yawn. She’s perfect. I place my pinky into the grasp
of her fingers, they curl tight around me. I whisper
“Don’t you let go, don’t you leave me,” and I bend down,
as I lift my arms, to kiss her soft spot, my lips grazing her
fontanelle, while tiny unseen hairs tickle my skin.

But this is only a dream. And just when I start to forget,
she’s lifting out of my arms, up and up and up into the sky,
her soft yellow receiving blanket hanging down,
like a magician’s cape in a levitation act.

She’s 10 feet above me, 20 feet, 50 feet, 100 feet --
I don’t turn away. I don’t close my eyes,
I’m like a child watching her balloon rise into the clouds,
not wanting to let go, not wanting to lose sight. But I do. Finally,
she’s above the clouds, so far out of reach, I can’t see her,
and I’m not even sure she was ever in my arms. She’s gone,
dissipated into the ether of my consciousness,
like the memory of a dream upon waking.

WHAT HE DESERVES

Yearning only for his warm embrace,
To feel his hardness in a special place,
Reminders of his deceit resurface,
Desire for my fist to contact his face.

Jump on It

My throat croaks your dusty name
into the blanket balled in my fists.

Since you died, I haven’t stepped
onto Fourth St. or eaten macaroons

like we used to all summer. We’d hang out
on the fire escape, the sun a cherry lollipop

licked nightly by the riverside road,
damp air rising through black painted rails

that striated our thighs red. We’d shout,
"Jump on it!", if a cute guy walked by.

I never imagined you would.



"Jump on it!" (in the poem) should be in italics instead of with quotation marks.

"The Week at the Library"

Longing for Love?

Check out
“Tropical Romance.”
Millicent McCarthy,
recently recovered
from a breakdown
following the death
of her fiancée
in a bungee-jumping
accident takes a position
as a nanny and falls in love
with her employer!
Romance/fiction.

Check out
“Isaiah 43.”
Read about the One
who loves you with
an everlasting love,
speaks tenderly to you,
calls you precious
in his eyes and honored.
Fall in love
with your Maker!
Romance/non-fiction.

RETURN

Yesterday, I went down
to the pond to capture birds
with my camera.

I was expecting
red-winged blackbirds,
sparrows, robins.

But a great, blue heron
rose up from the reeds!

With a forty-eight inch wing-span,
he made his awkward way
out of the tall grass toward the sky.

I remember that moment
this morning, your birthday,
four months and two days

after you died and left me
longing for you to return.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

"Canine Woes"

I wait for you each day,
To return for the night.
The crating is okay,
Doesn't cause too much plight.
But when I see your smile,
I know we will unite,
You'll walk me for a mile,
And I'll lick you with delight.

(My first attempt at a sestina)

Longing for another choice
Desiring a louder voice
Just needing someone to take over
This would set me free
Give me the time I need
But I just sit here longing.

This desire, this torturous longing
This potential of a choice
That might give me what I need
I hear the desperate voice
Begging to be free
Begging for this to be over.

It is not until it is, Over
And it is not, so I stay longing
To shake off what makes me un-free
This is the difficult choice
So hard to believe my voice
Telling me what I still need.

If I don’t get what I need
Then this is all over
My opinion will not be voiced
And I’ll bottle up this longing
That will be my choice
Who needs to be free?

I don’t need to be free
This is not a need I need
I’ve survived this long by choice
I’ll cry out “Game Over!”
And then recant, longing
To find the nerve to give my voice.

A moment to have a voice
To shout, Let me be free
Let me be loosed of this longing
To rid myself of the need
To boldly stand and turn over
The cards in my deck, make a choice.

This is the longing rasping in my voice
The last choice, last chance to free
Me from the need, until, at last, it’s over.

"Feast Day"

At the village on the hill,
beyond the tomato fields,
the olive trees and wine grapes,
the boys carrying torches
circle round the darkened streets.
The small one throws a firecracker,
and they all start to run.
Slap, slap, slap.
Sandals slip on stone steps,
chasing the flames, until it’s all a blur –
legs, lights, shouts in the night.
All that they want is here;
All that they want is this.

To Pueri and LL

(based on boyzIImen)

let's peel the night together, pue
it is an orange left for you
i wanna play the chorus girl
my heart is twisting, it's a curl

life is so cute
your eyes are mute
i love the night
please get it right

the lights are off in my stern flat
I search you in the night like bat
i wanna be your pueril girl
my passion: cat eating a pearl

life is so cute
your eyes are mute
i love the night
please get it right

throw your clothes on the floor
throw your clothes on the floor
my sweetest sore
my sweetest sore...

March 07, 2007 9:52 AM

JUST A DREAM (PAD April 27, 2009 - Longing)


I dreamed it once long ago
We walked and talked
in a lovely garden
my mother and me
She gently touched my arm
to remind me of her love
We talked of many things
that only she would know
She told me about the love
she and my father shared
She told me of how he cared
for her when she grieved
the loss of her sister
How when she carried me
during her pregnancy
he rubbed her tired feet
when his own back ached
from working all day
She told me how she carried
me in her arms
when I scraped my knee
and kissed away the hurt
so tenderly
I dreamed it once long ago

Someday
there will be no more
of this

this tht brings pain
suffering
sorrow

this that brings separation
division
loss

this that brings anger
confusion
bitterness

Someday

Can I woo
the unwooable?

Can I touch
the untouchable?

Can I get,
the ungettable?

Or do I just
walk away?

4/27/09

LONGINGS THEN AND NOW

To return to care-free days in the sun
at the swimming hole;
for just the right boy to ask you to prom—
then to find the perfect dress to wear.

To get out of Miss Overfield’s
history class with a passing grade;
for Mrs. Mayberry’s typing class
to be over;
to manage an OK
on our driving test
in Mr. Smith’s class.

These longings have now given way
to grandchildren’s well-being,
the state of the world,
and an urgency
for people to understand
the lateness of the hour
in the grand scheme of things.

Haiku: Return To Me

I am captured by
your smile, your eyes, your caress.
Please return to me.

Margaritifera

I am a freshwater mussel.
My name is Margaritifera.
I long to be immortal,
I long to make a pearl.

But a pearl is awkward,
arises from a piece of grit
I can feel in my flesh.
I nacre it over

and for some years
out of my long dull life
on the fine river sand,
go about my business

till I no longer notice.
But for the world
to know of that pearl,
it must leave my body,

and will more than likely
mean my untimely death.
Still, I long to be immortal.
I long to make a pearl.

Not longing

I can’t picture my Grandma Marion longing
for anything, really. Her disciplined life was
too full for longing’s tugs and traumas,
and if she even believed in longing,
she did not let it slip out. She was

a meticulous recorder, could
look up, at any time, what she and Grandpa
spent on ice cream cones the third June
of their marriage or what their mortgage
payment was the year Margo was five and

Wayne was seven. She labeled gifts and
household items with details like
the story of her youngest sister’s birth
scrawled on the brown paper back of
a living room picture, or the note,

still found in the wooden, felt-lined
silverware box, about how this silver
was used daily until the kids gave her
stainless steel flatware as a gift,
so that this set was boxed away

for special occasions only.
Dishes never piled up. The house was
clean and calm, and even after her stroke
there always seemed time for grandchildren
or typing notes to anyone who needed

a lift. She never gave the impression
she wanted to be anywhere other than
where she was or to have more than she did
at that moment. The memory of being near
such contentment makes me long for her.


Linda Voit

Bookends


The girl leans, her back to
the complete Shakespeare and Sherlock Holmes
while on the other side,
the little dog looks up
to the top of the books
as if he expects her
to climb over Will and
Arthur Conan Doyle
to pay some attention to him.
He looks as if he might start whining.

They have been there for
so long and nothing has changed
I wonder if he resents
these great storytellers
for keeping them apart.

I wonder when you are
going to put Tolkien down
and scratch behind my ears

SO REAL, THE WORLD

Through my bedroom screen
the night sky hangs huge and close,
it's ear pinned to the ground hovering
above alfalfa, timothy and corn,
listening to crickets and frogs nag in a stage whisper
over the cascade of burbling spring water.

"We are" "we are" "we are" they repeat---
repeat until they die of it and blend with
the row upon row of fruit trees engulfed in
firefly-twinkle- Christmas-light charm,
blinking, shimmering
---moved by a religion all of their own.

Piglets lie huddled with their litter mates,
wriggling and wallowing, an occasional squeak or squeal
punctuated by yawns. Their parents seem spellbound
by the sprinkled flutter and "bok"
of shuffling roosted hens.


Nearby, our Herefords lull, calling low
in the darkness from the summer pasture,
patiently awaiting the signal
to head for the trough.

Suddenly Grandfather Owl swoops from his
silent perch in the haymow, the darkness
is pierced by rabbit screams. Grunts and barks
emanate from the pig pen.

During the subsequent moment of silence,
I drink in the sultry waftings of
Mother Earth's slumber,
sampling the honey of her
pungent sexuality, like mushrooms,
like river water,
like red clover .

Why I Am Up Late Again


There’s so much longing in poetry –
for love, requited and otherwise,
for the chance to say one last thing
to a departed mother or father,
even for the cold comfort of death.

And yet, the greatest longing
is for immortality. Who among us
would not want to be Nortonized?
Will anyone ever read us when
we’re gone, except our kids at our funeral?

This is why we write long after
other creatures have gone to bed.
We forge into the single-digit hours,
pens or keyboards flying in the face
of time, chasing the inevitable.

Longing

Wish
Desire
Yearning
Hunger
Craving
Ache
Pining
Lust
For something more.
For something different.
For something else.
For something lost.
For something never had.
For something remembered.
For something forgotten.
For something nowhere to be found.

I long for the days of bad wine,
Baby Duck I think it was.
We drank in the backend of a
cargo van we borrowed from
your dad because it would
hold us all, complete with
pillows and blankets and wine
that was warm from being
hidden for hours because we
were only eighteen and still
had to beg someone older
to buy it for us.
It was strong, packed a punch,
part of the allure was the
bits of cork floating in it
from our inexperience at cork
removal and often we had to
hold the cork inside with a
finger, slurping the burgundy
liquid and passing the huge
bottle, a magnum, they called
it, enough for everyone.
We laughed and didn't care
that the hour was late,
or if we got any sleep.
You are gone now,
left when we said goodbye
to those carefree days
drinking on the back roads.
Our next adventure will have
to wait until I join you.
I long to know if you've
found a better quality of
wine and if you've found
a way to have it chilled.

Satisfy My Longing

Set me adrift on a lazy river
at sunset.
Float me into twilight
as the stars come out
to dance with the banana moon.
Let me count the stars
one
by
one.
Gently rolling with the river
into dreamland,
the night music is a lullabye.
Set me adrift on a lazy river
at sunset.
Satisfy my longing
for a good night's sleep.

LBC

Nervously

She's so tiny.
Please get well.
Will she make it?
Time will tell.

Small body's hot;
my heart burns
to give relief.
My soul yearns!

Drink some of this;
sit up. Try.
I will hold you;
I won't cry.

A bead of sweat –
welcome sign.;
wide-open eyes.
Baby mine!

At last, your smile!
Giggling, too!
Make no mistake:
I love you.


(Re-posting for day 27)

Longing

I think I was once passionate about things,
But of late nothing ever really matters.
I have become cynical about the direction
In which the world seems to be going.

I have lived a blessed life for sixty years,
Unharmed by fear or pain or grief;
But all around me I hear the cries and moans
Of those who seem to have a harder row to hoe.

What help can I offer to these sufferers?
I have neither fortune nor faith to give;
Only the sad earthly reality I have seen
Played out in my brief lifetime.

The hope for the future lies in the hands of humans;
A species that has proven itself to be selfish;
Destructive and murderous throughout history.
Must we create Armageddon to gain salvation?

If only humans could reach enlightenment;
To see how wonderful being human is.
This is the world we have inherited;
I wish we could take better care of it.

There may be worlds that lie beyond
This earthy realm in which we live,
But If I have an eternal soul,
I want to devote it to living here and now.

Day 27: Longing
My soul might be longing for God
And my heart for unfettered love from a partner and mate;
My better nature aches for my children’s sake for peace in the world,
But (I’ve written a lot of serious poetry this month so)
I’ll take a beer in the shade.

One Wish

I wish I were a little richer.
I wish I was a little smarter.
I wish I were a little younger,
or maybe a lot.

I'd like to have a bigger house,
a faster car,
an electric guitar,
if I could.

The kids could listen more.
The dog could stop his barking.
And no-one ever died
of too many hugs.

All of these things would be nice.
Just nice.
But you could keep it all if you give me this:
could somebody (please?) cure my disease?

Longing

I long to speak his name
have him hear me and answer
with his deep voice that always
took me by surprise.

I long to see him walk out of his
room with his hair standing on end
and head for the cereal box,
heft the gallon of milk from the fridge
and slurp it on and in.

I long to hear him whistle a tune,
to sit still and hear the saxophone come
to life, see his long, strong fingers
moving on the sax and his mouth on
the reed as he plays with such feeling,
eyes closed, putting himself into each
note whether it was the gator stomp
or the midnight blues.

I long to see him walk in the room
so tall and handsome, hug me so
tight, then lean over to kiss my cheek.

I long to hear him say my name
Mom, or Mama, or Ma, depending
on what mood he was in that day
even old parental one would make me
laugh again.

I long to hear his jokes or hear him
talk about something and get so tickled
himself that he’d laugh his all out
wide open, knee slapping laugh.

I long to pick up the phone when it rings
and hear those words, hey mom, what’s up
I thought I’d come home this weekend.

I long to cook him spaghetti and hear his
praise for something so simple, so easy,
see him lying on the couch to watch TV
and fill the house with his presence...
just that would be enough, just presence.

Judy Roney
April 27, 2009

She longs for something more romantic

We began this thing in lust.
A psychic connection that bound our souls
called us, kept us together.
We were fractured, headed for love or bust.
Life lessons came and took toll,
on young love, as they do. But we weather
those storms much better now.
In the quiet times I dream of beaches:
Waves crash beneath sunlight clear.
Our half naked bodies, lounge lazy; how
starlit nights soften speeches
turned romantic, as lips tickle my ear.
We would laugh, alcohol soaked.
Tropical breezes would tussle your hair.
When I come to, I remind
myself you’re not that type. You often joked,
A hut alone, without care,
is where you’d retire, if I don’t mind.

Dina’s Discovery

She had longed for a child
For so long,
Miscarriage after miscarriage,
Failed in vitro after failed in vitro;
For years, not being able to attend
The baby showers
Of her colleagues at work
Because it just hurt too much.
Yet
When she became pregnant,
And the ultra sound showed
Baby A and Baby B,
And the amnio showed
Baby A was a girl
And baby B was a girl,
And she carried the twin girls
For nine months,
And delivered them
By C-section
As had been arranged,
And both were healthy
With high scores on the Apgar scale,
She suddenly realized
That now
She was no longer who she had been,
A woman whose entire life,
Though consumed with longing,
Was still hers.
Now she was a mother,
And looking down at the two little heads,
One light and one dark,
She suddenly realized
That she had very mixed feelings
About giving up that life.

Longing

The voice was louder when I was in high school
Watching popular kids laughing
Going to parties, having fun
People liked me -- smart, Asian, nice
I was odd but not threatening
They’d smile, nod when we passed in the halls
Then walk on
Leaving me behind

The voice shouted I didn’t know how to be normal
How not to be interested in history
Or the mysteries of life unfolding in biology
I couldn’t dress so that boys would look at me
I didn’t know how not to look awkward
How to dance
Or just hang out

College was easier -- the voice was content
There were other weird geeks like me
I had people to talk to
We all were strange and none of us fit in
It gave us something in common
A way to bond
A place to be

Now the voice is usually silent
I still don’t know much about fashion
But I have you, love, and I mostly don’t care
Except at night when I wake trapped in darkness
And you are sleeping and my aloneness cries out
Why am I different?
Why can’t I belong?

You lightly traced
your forefinger down
my chest;
something so soft,
sensual, erotic
about your touch
that left me breathless
and not being able
to look you in the eye.
Why?
You touched my skin
but you touched my soul;
you made me afraid
for you to see
the wild, throbbing desire
in me;
you would have seen it
in my eyes;
the wanting, in a forbidden
place; my soul.

Poets
Long to write the perfect poem
Be it long or short
Form or free
Weep with grief
Or laugh with joy
Or somewhere in between
All this matters not one bit
Poets just long
To write the perfect poem
To which your senses soar

Life

I thought life was fair
so I gave away my heart
now it sits unclaimed

come what may

oh for words to declare
courage to speak and come what may
do or die is not the question
to do is to die a public death
not to do is still to die
though private, more acute
because I live to see it occur

I long for the smooth
Texture of your sinful
Body and the aroma
That is only you
I long for you at
Breakfast and again
At noon and in the
Evening I really
Long for you
But
All I get is broccoli
For chocolate is
Out of touch

Remembered Love

T'was just a dream remembered
Which jolted him from sleep
That cold night in December
And he began to weep

Her touch he'd ne'er forgotten
He longed to feel it still
He knew he'd acted rotten
She'd chafed under his will

She'd left him in the spring time
While birds were full of song
Now here it was - the cold time
He'd been alone so long

Now sleep tugging at his eyes
Begging him to come back
So off to dreamland he flies
Back to the love he lacked


Nita G Isenhour
April 27, 2009
PAD Challenge prompt # 27: longing

The Ventriloquist and the Wood Chipper

How do you let go of a friend
you’ve held up straight when
he’d fall down if he was alone
yet is nothing but a burden?

Fish get flushed.
Cats get coffins.
Dogs get stuffed.

So, then, why can’t
wooden puppets get chipped?

Longing for him is a waste,
I contemplate, while gardening,
mulching.

There they are

brightly colored
or solid silk
long and short
but mostly short
my past
my hope for
the future.
Truth?
Never again
Size 10.

Holy Land

How I long to see
The land where my Savior lived and died for me
Visit Bethlehem where He was born
Travel to Nazareth where He grew and learned
Stop at places where He preached, taught and healed
Sail on the Sea of Galilee where He fished and sailed
Worship in Jerusalem where He was tried and crucified
Gaze on Calvary where for me He died
Visit the Empty Tomb
And the Eastern Gate which He will open soon

Overwhelmed

Each fish, coral, algae
each ship, diver, jet ski
each shark, whale, octopus

Like a mother, tired of constant
work and love, work and love
it attempts to flee,

strives for the next stretch
of land as a climber reaches
for the summit,

only to return
with the call of the moon,
strong, like the cry

of that mother’s favorite
(though she would never
admit it) child.

JUST ONE BITE

I pass by the little package;
small and rectangular,
so tempting and so dark
and so very bad for me,
but I love it so and want
this taboo very bad
to drink it and to smell it
without it melting in my hand.
Oh! It's unfair that I can't
have a little, single bite
because I'm on a self-made diet
and cheating on myself
just wouldn't feel right.
So I'll rush away before
the little voice starts
chirping on my shoulder
'just one bite my dear
won't kill you this morning'.
Why tempt fate?
I'll just walk quickly away.

My Daydream

She sits across from me
legs crossed
hiding herself
the wheels of my daydream
turn
images of her back against me
arms spread across the bar
breathing together

heels shining in the daylight
the window open to the world
wondering if people are watching

we grind until our sweat combines
into a sweet summer extract
of rainbows

we finish
eyes locked
wanting more for the rest of my life.

God in High Places

The longing begins
about this time
every year.

One of our family traditions
is an annual summer trip
to the Pocono Mountains.

Our main destination
is a family-run amusement park
where husband, son,
and son's friends
can ride all day
and into the night
in a relaxed atmosphere
and at reasonable cost.

Sounds great so far, I know.
But as you can see
I left myself out of
the rides equation.
The rides I do not love.
I do love watching the guys
tilt, whirl, roller coaster
to their hearts' delight.
But that is not where
my longing comes in.

No, what I long for
is that very first glimpse
of those steadfast mountains.

I know the exact spot
on the turnpike
where the mountains
first come into my view.

If a heart really can leap
mine does
every single year
every single time
I catch that first glimpse
of my beloved mountains.

And every single time
every single year
I am reminded
of the psalmist's words:

I lift up my eyes
toward the mountains:
whence shall help come to me?

The longing begins
about this time
every year.

Like A House on Fire

My childhood home burned down last year.
Due to the size of the conflagration and the flash-over
in the family room, videos of my home burning
are all over You-Tube for the edification of firefighters
and those of us whose bedrooms are shown
crumbling in the blaze. My mother, when she heard,
emailed me to say, “You can’t go home again.”
For weeks I sat at my computer and watched
those videos, weeping. My husband and sons
crept around me, whispering. The roof of my brother’s
room over the garage exploded for the umpteenth time.
The blackened living room was opened to anyone’s gaze.
Anyone could see where the piano used to be,
and the fireplace, which was not at all to blame
in the destruction. So much noise – who knew
erasing my childhood would be so loud?
A woman died in that fire, home into grave.
She was probably already dead when lifted
out by helicopter. She had probably been lifted out
already. Someone had painted our house white
some time in the last twenty years, white like a ghost,
like smoke, like the past disappearing into the night air.

Before and After Longing There was Now
April 27

The child I was grew slowly into longing
from an open world of loving all that was
and the thirsty, hungry job of belonging
where the answer to all questions was because.
But then I learned the lesson of horizons
all the good that comes about at sixteen years
the glamour that comes with the age of drinking
those rewards that come when childhood disappears
the timeless things get smothered in our thinking
until in shock we note life’s almost over
and we begin to cherish each day’s waking
we thrill as in each moment we discover
the joy that’s always right here for the taking.

Hugh

Craving

Thin-sliced potatoes on a mandoline,
I hear sweet melodies as they dance
into my waiting mouth. Salt, grease,
complex carbohydrates, a delicious
symphony I've been applauding
my whole life. I know I should long
for sharp kale, crunchy broccoli,
velvety butternut squash, a pallet
of nutrition, but never have I wished
for a vegetable the way I pine
for potato chips.

"A Name As A Place Name"

I have heard it’s like heaven on earth not so craven
Despite moth-eaten muslin faces burnt ovens homes
I have heard there they eat curried potatoes, lamb
In yogurt spices cooked by cottage cheese hands
Saffron rice and minced meat balls in tomato sauce
I am told the wazwan is when you cannot say no
Although alcohol’s a no-no, beef perhaps for the raven
I have read their grief, dyed-wool sorrow like vests
Under flowing coarse pherans over chests of veins
In newsprint, sound bytes and stories like faraway
Tales of noisy sips from cups of nun-chai, salted
By fiery tears of Pandits, Buddhists, Persians, Af-
ghans, handsome locals of many ancient fames from
Peaks to forests colored by the kahwah and hard-
Resined pines while I’ve never been there… ever
Never seen Kashmir, only on the dreamy silver screen.

A click and a tick of the patient mouse beside my keyboard
Message sent: 'Rehana, will you write to me from there?'

Hey Aunt Elle

Pulling dandelions to make
room for prettier flowers,
(there are few)
lies a stained copper penny,
tails side up.

Aunt Elle was epic
in her measure to pick-up
loose change;
Grabbing a screwdriver
to dig
in tar
for a penny.

Cigarettes, slipped disks, and age:
she passed.

Picking up the penny:
"Hey Aunt Elle,
Glad you like the yard."

Longing parts her hair
hippie-straight over rose-coloured glasses,
dances close to you in candles' glow.
Cognac and memories lingering, layered.
Slight smoky bite of sandlewood sorrow
shows her shoulder downy gold to shadow.
She lights a smile and you breathe,
hands reaching to tangle in that longing.

Windfall

In order to reach for that ultimate impossible dream,
The Heavens have to strike my heart with some love,
Bring on Cupid to shoot and find me the perfect match,
For a windfall to shower riches and happiness like rain,
Be blessed for my gift from God to write down my ideas,
No matter how far my limitations are and have been met,
Light my fire for my muse as embers and seek independence,
Reaching for the stars, soaring by wings, touching clouds,
All traces of fearing shadows with darkness to disappear,
Those things I'm longing, yearning, burning for and desire.

Her mother's whispers,
trembling with importance
as if voice could make it true:
You're gonna get out of here, baby,
you're gonna be whatever YOU want to be.
You're gonna...
You'll be...
Dreams wrapped in clean vinyl
Shiny black like records and
rich people's shoes;
Until plastic daisies are gardens
and the floral curtain a waterfall;
she looks over the sodium light
at the orange-clouded night
and knows she will
inherit the stars.
--

Instamatic Retrospective At The Family Museum

The pictures throughout the album are faded,
colors mute as twice captured memories.
Names, dates, places flow across the reverse
of the snapshots in an elegant script, serving
as broken-handled spades not quite capable
of digging up the garden dirt of the past.
Placed in cemetery rows on the kitchen table,
the photographs formed the arc of a misplaced
childhood. No circuits fire-jump across the gap.
She might as well study the countenance
of strangers. The name on the back is her
name, the face on the print has dark eyes,
her eyes, but the expression is not the one
cross-examined in the mirror every morning.
It is far too bold and open, staring straight past
her shoulder to a future that never did happened.

A longing to avoid

Eye contact with Mr. Lorenzo,
my neighbor down the street,
who yells at children running
across his freshly seeded lawn,
who told me he used to be a hand model.
Now I try to erase from my mind
the image of his pale arms peppered
with stray black hairs,
must fend off mental snapshots
of his bony fingers
lingering on his wife’s shoulders.

He waves his rake at me
as I walk my dog,
and I feign interest in the curb
where the dog pushes her nose,
but he calls my name,
paws the air to draw me toward him,
says come see my garden,
tilled with my own two hands.

The Truth


Is that I cannot bear one day
without your words caressing
my soul, without your poems
touching, arousing, seducing
me, therefore, I can only be
your reviewer, reader, editor,
adviser, but never your lover.

You see, as lovers we might
become tangled in daylight
trivia, those mundane tasks
that divide the most united
couples, but as poets, we’ll
remain erotically connected
by words in a Mobius strip.

You left when I was five
It was nineteen sixty two
Although we never said good-bye
My love would still stay true

They said you went to heaven
You never would return
I had to sleep alone each night
Such longing did I learn

I prayed you would return to me
Crying each night in bed
Remembering how you tucked me in
Caressing my tiny head

I visit your grave on Mother’s Day
Wondering where you are now
I still miss your tender touch and words
Oh, Grandma, you must know how

Quiet, Please

I’m enjoying the sun on my back
deck. The robin glares at me,
before she returns to feed
her nest filled with peepers.

The world refuses to be
hushed for new life struggles.
Each baby opens a wide mouth
hoping for fresh food delivery.

Cars and motorcycles
roar past maple trees,
radios blare,
people argue.

Bluebirds sing, call
to their mates, warn
intruders, stake a
birdhouse claim,.

Birds long for
quieter times in
lonelier neighborhoods
and quieter naps.

Quiet zones are ignored
everywhere. No place is
home to silence. Golden
are rare natural moments.

Longing for Brevity

Excerpts of life become anthologies,
sins reiterated, threaded throughout
pages of routine, common places.
Complacency lost in worn out pages;
restlessness found in the crisp new.
Neglected heroes, elevated adversaries
misstated, marked acceptable.
Passages left open-ended, disembarked.
Each paragraph intended as an epilogue.
Each paragraph rephrases the last,
seeking to replace longevity with brevity.
Finally, volumes sit unread.

Distances


A balcony in New Orleans where,
from the streets below, jazz notes
rise to the ironwork, dangling
like the potted plants. A bridge
in Paris where the sunlight
threads a blue tapestry between
the sky and water of the Seine
holding it all together
in a history of light and color.
One bench in the Uffizi where
it’s possible to see the Annunciations
of both da Vinci and Botticelli —
Mary deferring to a Gabriel
who pauses to disclose the arrival
of an elsewhere, like these
which I empty my glass to, in hope
of again closing the distances between us.

Getting Out

Indoors consumes me;
the need to eat, to telephone,
chat with friends online.
I write my poems on
computer, plugged in.
The pleasant mindless drone
of the television, my husband’s
radio, the cats’ need to be
petted, my comfortable new
chaise lounge, rugs underfoot.
On laptop wallpaper,
a photograph of flood plain
where you took me
kayaking a year ago.
Trees reached up, mirrored
blue water, pristine, scattered
with red blossoms, we paddled
between trunks, over roots
to see the herons nesting.
High in the trees, each nest
held a dinosaur. When they
flew, spread wings wide
as our kayak was long.
This year, there wasn’t enough rain,
and the plain didn’t flood.
Soon, we will meet
at the end of the road
where we kayaked before,
to attempt to hike to the rookery.
It will be good to get out.
It will be good to see you.

Lori Desrosiers

They say comments were wiped in the night; I know NOTHING....!

“For Belonging”

Running, anew, the route of refugee escapist
For lack of desire to compromise self
Leading a path to the door of “Once More”

All it took was for both to be drawn
From same slice of page in their new chapter
Not for one cut and pasted into a hidden library
Never intended to visit

Though ripped leaves can be successfully hidden,
Pressed in pages of another’s biographical recount,
When read together as one
In the breadth of continuity and logic foretold

Even when reading between the lines, they fail
Make and love one’s own tale

day 27 poem:

Longing

like a donkey between two mangers
there's so much I'd like to do
and my bed is very appealing

So here I sit,
too tired for productivity
too driven to actually sleep

Reposting:

Day #27: Longing poem

“Sometimes I don't know where this dirty road is taking me
Sometimes I can't even see the reason why
I guess I keep on gamblin', lots of booze and lots of ramblin'
It's easier than just a-waitin' 'round to die”
Townes Van Zandt


He had a longing in his heart,
For who or what he did not know
He just knew that it was inside
Eating him alive
Bite by ravenous bite.

There were the thoughts plaguing
An already cluttered mind,
Poetry, stories, feelings so overwhelming
He knew he would never have enough time
To sing them all to the world.

The beauty, the love, the rawness of ugly,
The words, the truth so hauntingly real.
Death tried many times to take his breath
And when it finally did, the poet and his songs
Were finally at peace with the

Quiet he had always longed for.

Old Love

It doesn’t tap at the window any more
With pebbles in the night
Or run behind trees
Hiding from the light
Or slip notes into sweaty hands
Dashing down the hall
Or gaze unabashedly
At his dark and tall
It doesn’t forget to eat
Or endlessly daydream
Doodling hearts and + signs
Pretending marry me
Yet , sun-ripened, old love
Still waits at the door
With his slippers, a back rub,
And makes it no chore-
Watches his cholesterol
And his blood pressure-
Doesn’t go to the moon and back
Because there is no measure.

Here's my repost:

Death’s Denouement

I missed her before she was gone,
But not even her slow waltz
Toward quietus nor the nestling
Of her vault above that excavated
Rectangular chasm
Arose such longing in me
As the moment I unsealed and unleashed
The unbearable finality
Of her last will and testament.

We've been out here six weeks or so.
Cold and hot, rain but no snow.
It's been so long since I tasted beer
I'd not recognize the taste you know.

They send people out to cheer
Us up with songs and jokes so drear,
Pretty girls older guys still call cheesecake
And politicians with words insincere.

Every meal I always take
All they serve, and I'm never awake
When I can sleep, Each hour
Is long, my enthusiasm fake.

I haven't noticed any flower
Here, the mud we're in is the highest power,
And I'd sell my soul for a nice hot shower.
And I'd sell my soul for a nice hot shower.

SUNDAY VISIT


We kiss between the grating,
breaths heavy with longing.
Your talk is fast––stories of home;
There’s too little time.
Instead, we pretend this
is the day of my release.
We laugh like children at play
in a garden exploding colors
like a dizzy man’s stars.
But winter is everywhere.
We count the deserting moments,
touch fingertips through
the wire-mesh grating.
In your eyes the hurt’s unbearable,
so I quickly look away.
When my eyes return,
you are gone. Again heaven
slams shut the spring garden gate.

#

Flowering

I’ve never seen the dogwoods
in Grass Valley quite so luminous
except that spring when you girls
were younger, maybe junior high,
my van full of your after-school
run-down of what went on in class,
at lunch time. I longed to give
you something enduring, amidst
the advent of ipods and text messaging,
so I made sure you knew the names
of each flowering tree as we carpooled by.
Maybe you have forgotten them by now,
getting ready to go off into the world,
but one day maybe you’ll be somewhere else,
stung by the potential darkness of our planet,
and you will look at the petals unfurling
and remember something from
your sweet girlhood, lilac, wisteria,
magnolia, dogwood, both pink and white,
the trees themselves lighting
a way to a safe passage.

My re-post


Longing...for



That crustaceous treat!

Legs, claws, I'll take

them all!

Longing for the crustaceous treat!

(repost)

THE WINDOW

Every morning he passed the house
on his way to work, rushed but rarely
in a hurry to get there. One crisp
winter's day, he noticed the attic
had a window and in that window,
he thought he saw a girl's face.
She wasn't looking at him though he
was looking at her. She was just looking
out. Out the window. On the walk home,
she was gone. But the next morning,
the face was in the window again.
This happened for a week. He looked
up, she looked out. When he realised
it was their first week anniversary,
he decided to make a move. He waved
his hand at her and smiled. She did not
wave, smile or even acknowledge.
Whatever she was looking for,
whatever she was longing for,
it wasn't him so he kept walking.
Each morning he still saw her but instead
of waving or smiling, he instead thought
about all that was missing in his own life.

Surgery

I get cut on this week,
On Day 29.
The Badge of Completion
will it still be mine?
Yes, I yearn for the day
I can hike trails again,
but the poems, oh the poems,
will I sing the refrain?
The surgeon is scheduled,
the room is all set
I really can’t change it,
I know this, and yet…

Eli and Ely and Me

Eli can read now,
says his name is wrong,
he’s an Elijah.
He’s become seven,
becoming who he’ll be.
Should I argue he is Eli,
Ely the Eel just a fiction?
Should he rule, or
ought I let him lose?
Can we find perfection?
Not that this is really
about communication.
This is Eli becoming Eli.
This is me loving Eli.
This is me loving Ely.
This is me becoming me,
still.

Subject: longing
4/27/09

April showers
Might make
May flowers,
Bu not if
I can’t plaint them,

Buckets of rain
Keep me inside,
Rain forming
Puddles deep
Enough to delight
Any child,
Lightening
Illuminating
Leaf filled
garden beds.
I can’t wait
to get started,
Till the soil,
Start seedlings,
Cruise garden stores
To find
Exotic new plants
Just to see
What will happen
This year.

But now,
I must be patient,
Looking at
lightening flashes,
Feel the
Boisterous noise
Vibrating my house,
Longing
For long warm days
When the first
Sweet tomato
Sacrifices itself
To my lust.

Re-posting...

Recital

That night
you were an overgrown boy
in a suit of Travolta white
standing alone on a stage
in a ring of light

A flute, silly and small
in your hands,
sang sweetly,
and I listened from the darkened stands.

Tonight, it strikes me that I'm still there
now, as I'll always be,
sitting in the shadows,
listening from my darkness
to whatever bright tune you play.

My Cat Loves Asparagus

A sensual animal
Longing for a sensual vegetable
He ignores the stove-and counter-tops
Entirely
And leaps onto the kitchen table
To stalk my slice of roast
Until I step away.

Later I notice the stove-top
And the open foil
And him in the next room
Perceptibly unconcerned
His longing fulfilled.

Longing for peace in the world
*******************************************

I long for peace on earth,
When people would be free from war and famine,
Earth will be peaceful when it is re-birth,
Everyone should change and take the action.

Stop hate, war and racism,
Stop being greedy and want to take from other nations,
We are all the sons and daughters of Adam,
Stop the fighting and be united as humans.

We are facing global warming and nuclear threats,
Don't point fingers at others when they themselves are the culprits,
Strive to change or one day face regrets,
Earth is our home not other planets.

Late

I want to go home, but I’m not yet done
with either my current can of Coke or the slides
I still plan to hammer into sequence tonight,
but my veins are fuzzy with lack of sleep,
my focus leaking every which where
except upon the topic at hand. Oh, to possess
the command of crystalline logic, the grace
of cut-glass concentration — my task
is neither Sisyphean nor any other
incarnation of impossible, and yet
as daunting as not turning around when told
not to turn around. Behind me are the shards
of shattered piggybanks, the shreds
of a lunatic’s leathers, the specks
of myself — for yes, already
I am crumbling, a tale of salt
trailing away from the very water it sought.

repost...

April 27, 2009 (prompt-longing)

Counting the minutes

I waken to warm
morning sun
kissing half naked body
'minding me once more
how I crave
the touch of your
fingertips

remembering last nights
lovemaking
makes body tingle
with desire
of wanting you now
at this very moment

after shave scent
warfs around
our bed
causing heart
to hum
a lovers serenade
with moistened tongue
tracing half open lips
each exhale
whispering
your name

satin sheets
hug ev'ry curve
teases
erotic fantasy
and my imagination
goes crazy
with intoxicating
after thoughts

deep longing
dances with dawn
in knowing
that tonight
with that look
in your eyes
morning fantasies
will be sadated...
fulfilled...
'neath
veil of
April moon

(c) RMS

fasting & praying
for the would be us

your sexy is my sanctuary but
it is not for your physical that i covet
coated center in the sincerity of sweet
sanctioned by the holy of holies
i daydreamed you into our creation
butterfly kissed you in advance of our first God Bless you

mother may i?

fasted on behalf of this
tarried with hale mary’s my poetic form
abab father/mother cdcd son efef holy spirit
gg after this

prayed in advance for our would be children
asked for forgiveness on behalf of the universe's
disobedience of not answering the
memory of us before now and possibly never

eternity is still plausible

amen awoman us

tomorrow will be
four weeks alcoholic like
I keep count

From Heart of a Ready Writer:

http://heartofareadywriter.blogspot.com/2009/04/april-27th-find-me-faithful.html

FIND ME FAITHFUL – A POET’S PLEA

I cannot tell you for what I long
it’s a secret
Having something to desire
is what keeps me going

but if I told you for what I yearn
you might think me silly
or foolish
or worse
you might laugh

So I will keep it close
in my heart
and maybe someday
it will be mine.

Where I Would Live, How I Would Write It


At the pond's edge, last year's grasses
clack dry in the afternoon's breeze, reeds
shot through with spring's green spears.
A blackbird rests on an old cattail.
An iris unfurls its yellow flag.
I have been writing this poem for months,
over and over--the way the wind
changes the sky over and over,
the same sky (different colors,
different clouds), the way the tide
washes the beach over and over,
the moon swelling and then swallowed
by night. I am writing the same poem
over and over--trying with each new draft
to see more of this house, this pond, this bird,
this ocean across the street, this place
I've been to only in my own words.

From Nickers and Ink -

http://nickersandinkblog.blogspot.com/2009/04/someones-tapping-on-moms-shoulder.html

SOMEONE’S TAPPING ON MOM’S SHOULDER – KEYS TO MY HEART

A Cat’s Longing

He licks his chops planning his next
move. With no one in sight, his
large white body, fur flying, leaps
upward. His paws with unclipped
nails grab the top of the plastic
container. It tumbles off the
bedroom chest. Brown specks of
food spill everywhere. Hearing
angry voices he heads for the bed
and slips under the dust ruffle.
He waits, longing after his target,
ready to strike again.

looking for love in the wrong place

My first love wasn’t love, I didn’t know
the meaning of love. Being with him was
just a learning phase. There was
a semblance of love. We experimented with
cocktails like love potion number nine.
We schmoozed in front of the TV,
held hands, did the everyday things
that couples did. On weekends, I stayed over,
his mum cooked up a storm, taught me new
culinary skills. Love and food were served
on a platter. My stomach was satiated,
the rest of me ached with some kind of longing,
unfulfilled dreams, literary aspirations.

The way we carried on, it seemed almost
a fait accompli. Your mum whispered to me,
you must try for a baby once you marry,
I want a grandchild. And the alarm went off.
I need to map a different direction, longed to
enter university. I tried looking for signs
that you understood. You were torn in between,
you said, and we will travel down that road.
I couldn’t rid myself of the demons,
they’re telling me, get out before it’s too late.
The brown teak chair I sat on was solid,
it was sturdy to sit on, but I broke its leg
just so to stand on my own two feet.

Vigil

For a long week
the black cat perches
on the narrow windowsill,
stares at the driveway.

When outdoors
she roams close to the house,
head turned to the drive.

She doesn’t sleep much
or relax her vigil
until her human’s car
drives in.

Unloosing the cascade

My lips, my lips,
they crave the rasp of stubble
just under the jawline,
yes, right there,
and the quickening
of your pulse
on my tongue,
skin like satin
and nubby tweed,
the slow, deep tremble
of hands and limbs
intertwined,
the feel of grass
bending and breaking
beneath me,
green sharp tingle
rising to my nose...
surrounded with
flowers and incense,
tree sap and spice.
standing,
reverential, inhaling
the stew from the
good cook's kitchen,
floating and blissful
as Chagall's goat,
seeing beyond and into
what all I crave.

BEFORE THE EXAM

Sun’s exploding through the canopy of trees
leaving shards and shatters of light,
the top of my stair varnished
rococo gold, smudged window glazed,
every dust-mote dazzling. How I long to
thumb this book shut
on its graven sentences –
take just one rhyme, its glint of
simultaneous connections, serendipity,
and go walking to the towpath
to see how this morning’s river flows.

Telephone

If
only
he
would
call,
I’d
leave
the
tub
water
running
&
race
down
the
hall.

Longing

He wishes he could touch her
with those healing hands,
take the pain, fulfill the longing
in her heart, her mind, her soul.

He wishes someone would touch him
with the master’s touch, still his world,
calm the storms, lead him for a stroll
across waters to promised land.

He wishes he could touch him
like Jesus Christ or John Coffey,
lift his deafness from his ears
like washing jam from baby’s face.


........

Waiting to Live

Dwelling silently in dusty pages, awaiting
the chance to live. Humble roots give rise to
aspiring dreams, mythic proportions of grace.
We draw you in and encapsulate, like a siren, until you
Give up all thought, breath and will and dive,
Deep, Marianas deep, but still we don’t mind and you find
that neither do you. But are hands are forced and so we wait,
leather and Paper bound on shelves far away from the topics
our lives capture. So we Wait, to live, to breathe, to
ensnare. Because, truly, We can not survive without you

Unplanned wanting

I stared at the stick for at least an hour
Stared - forgetting how to blink
I couldn’t stop myself from crying
When the test came back pink

“My father’s gonna kill me
It’ll drive momma to drink”
I held on tightly to the basin
When the test came back pink

My boyfriend’s such an ass
I don’t care what he thinks
“I’m not the father of this child”
When the test came back pink

Hard to believe, a drop of pee
Can make the heart rise or sink
I had no clue where we’d end up
When the test came back pink

Nine months to this very day
“I hope this doesn’t cause a jinx
One life did end but then began”
When the test came back pink

- P.A. Beyer

Sports Idols
When I was little
I dreamed
I mean
I really dreamed
of playing ball
basketball
baseball
football
any kind of ball

The ballplayers
I worshipped
were all older
& I looked up to
Mickey Mantle
Willie Mays
Bob Cousy

– They were gods to me

Larry Jaffe
yearned
to be on such
a list

I grew up
shoveling snow
from basketball courts
diving head first
into second base
breaking my nose
on kickoffs
& the players
appeared somewhat
younger than before

The talent
to hit a baseball
catch footballs
shoot hoops
was minimal
even after
years of practice

The dream
Of hearing
Larry Jaffe
announced
from public address
systems wilted

the players
kept getting
younger
and younger
and I no longer
identified
with any of them

– They were no longer gods to me

I talked about the game
as if I still played it
still loving the game
despite the noise
of players lives
and reporter’s whines

I am not interested
in with who m ARod sleeps
or Jeeter dates
or Shaq’s movies
or countless other things
that do not occur
between the lines

I never cared about
their lives
only the balls they hit
or caught or shot

– They are not gods to me

I just love the game


© 2009 lgjaffe

“A RETURN TO INNOCENCE”
By: Nikki Markle

How I long to be a child again, innocent and carefree.
When naps were a form of punishment,
Life revolved around a sandbox, not a nine-to-five, and
Putting clothes on my back and food on the table
Weren’t my responsibilities.

I yearn for a time when the littlest things could make me happy,
Blowing bubbles, a colorful balloon, or
Even a sucker from a friendly bank teller.
Truly believing your mom was the most beautiful woman ever
And your dad was a superhero, ten feet tall.

Take me back to the days
Where I lived each moment to the utmost;
Undaunted by what tomorrow might bring.
Give me back my childhood and
This time I won’t take it for granted

Building Memories

Won’t it be grand
Oh so nice to be…
Drinking coffee at sunrise
Watching the squirrels
Squirrel away

It will be good
Oh so nice when…
We’re sipping iced tea
In the cool shade
Listening to birds calling
To each other

Wouldn’t it be great
Oh so nice if only…
All the projects
Were completed, finished
And we could be admiring
Our handy work
And the colors of the setting sun

England Out my Plane Window

A tiny white line flickers against a strip of brown and green
But now it changes and I can see rocks and trees and cliffs
And ancient cities and a silver ribbon
Out my plane window
And the ribbon has turned into a river.
Captain ordered us restrained in our seats
So we will be safe as he gently lowers us
Into the land of splendour and magic and history-
I see for the first times England's greenest hills
And I weep with uncontrollable joy
For what seems like a vast eternity from now,
But only minutes by Big Ben's clock
I will walk freely among the land of my dreams!

His body...
so soft
so warm
so tender
so inviting
so kissable
so sweet
so comforting
so...far away

"Center Lane"

Her name for it is...
well, she's not quite sure but
it's crimson or maroon, and
some days tinged with envy
spines around the edges.
And the relentless questions
that she can't seem to
answer live most
deeply in the night. Sometimes,
her baby breath shifts to yelps,
she pants like the wounded
pup she dreads seeing
in her dreams. He's stranded,
limping, his limpid gentle eyes
begging to be rescued. She
rushes out only to be
struck herself; her fractured
bones mingling with his.

I Am Longing For That Day
By Diana J. Baker

I am longing for that day
When every pain is gone,
When this aching, fleshly body
Is finally changed, renewed, and home.

When the King in all His splendor
Comes and takes His Bride away
To rejoice throughout eternity
In Heaven’s glorious day.

When the darkness and foreboding
That has filled men’s lives with dread
Is swallowed up in victory
By our Glorious Heavenly Head.

When there’s no need for sun by day
Or for moon and stars by night;
When the light of His awesome presence
Makes all things shine pure and bright.

When the redeemed of the Lord
Will with Him forever rule and reign,
Free from all sin and darkness
And from every ounce of shame.

I am longing for that day
When all time will be no more,
When I and all the redeemed
Stand with Christ on that distant shore.

When with the angels in heaven
We will worship and sing praise
To Jesus, the Holy Spirit,
And the Father, the Ancient of Days.

I am longing for that day.

I can see the past
in the stars
and long to be there

"Salt Song"

Turning and turning in the radiance
Of cormorants' screams,
Driftwood flesh is bathed,
Salt stings my lips.
I dream of the resilience of the rivers of your hair,
And I stand on the strand
And speak your name to myself,
Before the wind can wrest it from me.
I press wood into my skin
And my eyes make salt
But it is not enough.
Your waters erase my footsteps.
Your kelp shines a net round my liver.
I crave the scrape of your faded fingers.

There are no one- or two-word lines here; the lines should be long.

Retraining

I remember, in a misty, paisley way,
when it was different, when I moved lightly through the lines
like smooth ink making my telling shapes. Now I am lame,
a cast on my arm, a brace on my spirit. I have forgotten
that I was this way before, when I started: when all was strange,
every change a challenge, every move close to a buried mine.
I look back only as far as when I was quick and beautiful.
I don’t long for the past; there is far too much of it.
I long for that moment--maybe thirteen years ago,
or twelve, or never--that was so perfect
I didn’t even know it.

February

Dry arms
Leave flakes of white
On winter clothes.

Cold air
Blasts my face
As I open the door.

Ice
Under the snow
Makes for cautious steps.

Brittle stalks
Grey and brown
Balance frozen white.

I dream of
Color, warmth
And sure steps.

Mother

I wish she didn't have to leave,
that I could always have her near,
that Wyoming wasn't far away.
I always hoped to live near-by
and go home often.

I'm glad she comes in mid-winter.
I wish she would come sooner,
now that summer is near
she will go home.
I hope she'll come back soon.

But there's another leaving
I don't look forward to.
She won't come back then.
I can only go to her.

When she makes that change
I will have more there than here
but still be needed more
here than there.

I wish she would just get younger,
more agile, more able
to do the things she loves to do.
But she is leaving already,
a little bit at a time.

I wish she didn't have to leave,
that I could always have her near.

Beach Glass

For a long time
I dreamt of the past.
Now I dream of you:
I see you sitting
graceful, long legs
weeding a planting bed
your expression serene
your eyes far away.
But in the dream
I cannot open the door
and join you.
I wish my subconscious
were not so morose.
In time, old fears will wear away
like beach glass.
The jagged edges of my dreams
will become smooth.

Blind Date

Outside the door stood Beverly Cole
She saw him looking through the peephole
She wore an ugly flowered sun dress
Imagines him being so impressed

Come Up On Me

Come up on me;
Give me something new
With your body.

We were “meant to be”,
And I long for you…
Come up on me.

I want to greet
Each morning’s debut
With your body.

I call you “Baby”
When I want you to
Come up on me.

My body will believe
What it feels is true
With your body.

My excitement peaks
At the moment that you
Come up on me
With your body.

Where I’m Not Yet
By R. Chazz Chute

Endless rich coffee and a moment’s peace,
a big cherry desk in a quiet room,
bay windows over an empty beach
and the cooling light of a full moon.
These are the things I long for.

A comfortable chair
and a pile of paid bills,
long walks in fresh air,
and grandly recognized skills.
These are the things I long for.

A loyal dog,
great books to read,
a compassionate god,
freedom to think of wants, not needs.
These are the things I long for.

To make it work I’ll do what I can,
and maybe even last.
I’ll make an ambitious plan
so this fantasy future becomes a real past.
The time to make it happen is what I long for.

[Today’s poem sounds like a song, maybe I’m in a song-writing mood, especially after 3 days of New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival. I can hear the melody, the rhythm, I’ll have to get it down.]

I’d Be a Child Again

I’d be a child again
If I could again I’d be a little child
I’d taste it all brand new again
When every sense was undefiled
Oh, God, why did the world grow dim
And pagan joys turn into hymns
Once it all was sink or swim
I’d be a child again

I’d wake up fresh and clean
If I knew the way to back things up
Nothing that I knew would be obscene
I’d never drink that bitter cup
Oh, please, there has to be a way
To turn the nights back into days
And once there, I’d forever stay
I’d be a child again

But children try so hard to learn the world
They run so fast to try and catch the train
They never see the door close tight behind
They never feel the moment when they change

I’d be a child again
If sand could flow back up inside the glass
The world would glow like new again
And every future wouldn’t have a past
Oh, tell me why the waters flow
And never stop, but no one knows,
But if they did, they’d let me go
And be a child again

© 2009 Chuck Puckett
27 April 2009

Longing Revealed

Her writing reflected
emotions spent

Leaden
Oracles
Nullify
Gains
In
Nuances
Garnered

for he who was not meant to be hers

you know this time this whole thing has been fraught with problems. TWICE our comments have been erased, to say nothing about the slowness or the many times I've 'lost' my posts. Sort of takes away from the fun.

Here's my post again:

walnuts
on the
window sill
just inside
where
that cat
sits
and chatters

she stares
at me
with yellow
eyes that
warn me
I should
come no closer

but she
does not
eat walnuts

I do

The Flowering of Promises

What can I do but count away the days
and watch the sun spin across the sky;
the stars wheel and turn - the moonlight fades
each passing night until a smile I spy
and she lays anew on her bed of cloud
and still I wait. Another week or two
and will they then be risen high and proud
of nurturing soil and silver sand? Be true
I beg of thee and disappoint me not
for I fear the longing more than any
you might care to name but in this spot
I planted seeds, the first of many
that will brighten days and months and years
and help me contemplate these petty fears.

Gift For My Dad and the World

To have a voice
loud enough for the whole world to hear,
yet soft enough
to make the whole world listen,
gentle drops of rain
falling on velvet leaves
offering life,
the spring of living water
whispering to your heart,
“I love you,
come away, and thirst no more;
lay down your burdens,
and I will carry you.”
This I long to share
and long to see received.

(Thought I'd try a shadorma.)


Longing

I seem now
strangely free of it.
Can it be
that I’ve found
contentment – or apathy?
Or simply ageing?

Whatever,
I like this freedom –
memory
without pain,
while knowing that I’ve relished
all life’s rich flavours.

more than 6 degrees of separation

Somehow the "soon, soon," has become
the "when, when, when" and I’m reduced
to clichés of hope, a faceless woman
watching for you in shopping carts,
scanning each windshield’s curve.
This has to stop.
I long for that, too.

Longing

In a day of instant this and that
It’s important to remember that longing
Takes a long time.

As a kid, I remember
Longing for a pet cat and getting it
It was enjoyable for a short time.

As a teen, I remember
Longing for school to end so life could begin
It seemed distant and unattainable.

As an adult, I remember
Longing for success – whatever its definition
It was both close and faraway at the same time.

I remember the changes from stage to stage of life
Longing for more and better and satisfaction
Then I realized my longing was really for Jesus.

Now I am satisfied.

"Open Your Eyes"

I am invisible.
It’s not so bad at times,
I can make funny faces or pick my nose,
And you won’t see me.

I am transparent
I am jumping up and down in front of your face,
But you haven’t a clue.

It’s raining and I am opaque.
A misty cloud hovering over your head while
You go about your business oblivious to my existence.

Why won’t you see me!
You can, you know?
You just need to look.
I am right here… in front of you!
100% real girl,
But you want nothing.

~2

I long

I long, I long, I long
With a longing so strong

You could bottle it
It would really fit
As a love potion
Or such a notion
But it’s really hate
That I have to wait

I long, I long, I long
With a longing so strong

For the prompt to be gone
A wonderful new dawn
With no poetry for me
How great that will be
I will then be free
From all this idiocy

I long, I long, I long
With a longing so strong

Day 27 Prompt: Longing


Take This Longing
(villanelle)

Please take this longing from my eyes
my thoughts are lower than a mire
my gaze is fixed upon her thighs.

To me she is the perfect prize
she feeds in me a burning fire.
Please take this longing from my eyes.

I know my thoughts would bring surprise
if she knew of my deep desire.
My gaze is fixed upon her thighs.

Revealing my want would not be wise
my innocence rests on a spire.
Please take this longing from my eyes.

My love for her is based on lies
and my condition is most dire
My gaze is fixed upon her thighs.

Too young for me my conscience cries.
My mouth is dry, my hands perspire.
Please take this longing from my eyes
my gaze is fixed upon her thighs.


Maureen Sexton

http://www.maureensexton.com.au
http://www.wapoets.net.au
http://www.creativeconnectionsaape.net.au

Tiniest Bundle

Tiniest bundle, only 20 inches long;
Softest skin and hair of thick velvet.
The sweetest breath and such innocence;
I so long for the grandchild I've not yet met.

An Older Brother I long for

I tattled when you used the grapefruit
juice for invisible ink. Such a withering glance.

I threw a knife at you when you
told me not to bake cookies. You escaped
to the bathroom and locked the door.

I didn’t listen when you said my
boyfriend was gay. Much later I cried.

You sent me a dog from across the
continent. A dear companion.

You disappeared for many years
to a world I knew nothing of.

Though apart we always
shared the same universe. We
reconnected at the end; you kissed
my wrinkled hand in goodbye

SWIMMING IN THE LIGHT

the full moon
trapped in the trees
struggles in the branches
to break free
like a fish in a net
so it can continue
its slow swim
across the sky
but not even the
strongest limbs
can hold the light
and it streams
into my room
filling the space
like milky water
and I want to swim
in it to a time and place
where the moon and I
are fish and the
whole world is water

Longing for Love (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater
April 27, 2009
I'm longing for the one I love
to come into my life.
I know not who she be, it's true
But when I see I'll know her.

And others all across the land
Have the same longing too.
To have someone to have and hold
As man or wife, to sense it.

So thus our search goes on and on
For the forgotten and alone.
But if YOU put Christ first
Said he: "All these things shall be added unto you."

===========================================================++

Longing (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 27, 2009

And the man who sought death said: "I'm longing!"
And the man who sought life said: "I'm longing too!"
But the One who gave life said: "I'm longing."
And then He who gives death said: "I'm longing for YOU!"

===============================================================

Her Kitchen

each word is like a steel ball
dropped in a steel bucket
rolling
empty echoes
they have nothing to do with you.

i could begin by seeing, describing
the kitchen
how that drawer pulled out
and dropped off its tracks
and it would have nothing to do
with you

or the banana peel i put now
fraudulently in the trash
that doesn't exist
that i make up thinking
i could make you up too
or at least your shoes
blue summer shoes
kicked off on the old brick floor

steel ball in a bucket
nothing but circling echoes.
the walls blasted out
the staircase
folded like an accordian

the four wooden steps where we'd sit
in our long warm sleeeping shirts
with coffee
and look at Callie, the tree,
misted in the Long Island autumn damp
a little girl by our side
a little bird hopping

the pantry one step down where you kept
everything you needed
to serve us and make us happy.

rich and blessed life.
east wall
west wall
first ceiling
second ceiling
rubble fallen on a handwritten song

brick floor, copper pot, double stove
dripping water, dish drainer, cereal box, cup
full of spoons, hurricane lamps, door latch that lifted
rhododendrons and wet pavers outside
and I would go to the car to get the bag
with flour and yeast and cheeses and i would bring them back

hurry hurry
(fog in my hair) back just to
stand next to you

to stir
the sound of your laughter
into the mix,

to move the spoon
just right
in steady,
even
circles.
Posted by

Rapunzel in Her Tower


Over time, Rapunzel grows tired of horizons and the dips and swells of hills and valleys. She becomes sickened by the sunsets, which were once beautiful but are now all the same. The stars never seem to change position and Venus is always right there, next to the sun, glowing, the constant gases working to change the stone to air. Rapunzel is tired of the sky.

She desires sea shores, to walk with one foot in dry sand and the other in the surf, so that she is simultaneously wet and dry. She wants to smell fresh salt in the air, salt coming from only a few feet away and not from many miles, mingling with so many other scents before finally reaching her. Rapunzel dreams of eating sand just because she never has before.

She wants to wait for the waves to knock her down so she can open her mouth against the foaming crest and swallow. She wants to wrap her hair around her neck and feel the weight drag her down. The tower is only so tall. If she jumps, she will touch the ground and walk away. Even if the witch were to shave her head bald, she would still survive, despite nearly breaking apart. The ocean is bottomless; if she sinks, it will be forever and not even the length of her hair will be able to save her. Not even a prince.

Reposting April 27 Longing


The Groupie


Pansy didn't pine for long,
but it was heartfelt while it stayed.
She knew she'd sell her heart for a song.

She wanted him badly when he came along.
To give her credit, she never strayed,
but Pansy didn't pine for long.

She knew her plan of attack was wrong
but something this true couldn't be delayed.
She knew she'd sell her heart for a song.

She mounted her weapons--subtle and strong.
Her finer instincts were betrayed.
No-Pansy didn't pine for long.

She knew to her he must belong
even if the piper had to be paid.
She'd gladly sell her heaert for a song--

just one perfect song
sung to, and only for her made.
So Pansy didn't pine for long.
She quickly sold her heart for a song.

CHILDREN Longing for Love (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater

Blessed is the man whose quiver is full
Of arrows sent from God;
Such are the words spoken of old,
In honor of children sent from above.

Innocence, purity, candid, and cute;
Inquisitive folks in miniature style.
These, the reflections of days gone by
For grown-ups reminiscing the distant miles.

Suffer little children to come unto me,
For of such is the kingdom of heaven,
Gather around me the call of the Master,
The little one's who serve as life's leaven.

Laughing and playing, and dancing and singing,
These are the things that children do.
Whimsical cares of light-hearted people,
Passing away the days to youth.

But other children in distant lands,
Oft times forgotten who stand alone,
Hung'ry and naked, starving and cold,
Seek for the refuge only found in a home.

Suffer little children to come unto me,
For of such is the kingdom of heaven,
Gather around me the call of the Master,
The little one's who serve as life's leaven.

Standing on sidewalks, on corners of streets,
Playing in gutters and looking for food,
Shrouded in tattered rags that suffice
To cover their bodies, but not their mood.

Children who earnestly, LONGING for LOVE,
Find themselves lost to the world,
Let us reach out to the children in need,
And open our hearts like a flag unfurled.

Suffer little children to come unto me,
For of such is the kingdom of heaven,
Gather around me the call of the Master,
The little one's that serve as life's leaven.
Give me a dozen or more of my own,
That I and my wife might share,
To raise in our cottage somewhere in the vale,
In a happy home life that's sweet and fair.

Make us a father and mother to some,
A mixture of boys and of girls,
Give us the chance to fulfill our creation,
To gather our priceless pearls.

Suffer little children to come unto me,
For of such is the kingdom of heaven,
Gather around me the call of the Master,
The little one's who serve as life's leaven.

Joy in my kinship, posterity's line,
'Tis children I think of today,
And when I grow old and go in to eternity,
For my wife and my children I'll pray.

This is the counsel Jesus has told,
In spirit of contrite heart:
That heaven above is just like a child,
The humble and innocent part.

Suffer little children to come unto me,
For of such is the kingdom of heaven,
Gather around me the call of the Master,
The little one's that serve as life's leaven.

"Sonnet Variation, Opus #6: The Maddening Secrets of Desire"

I've unlocked the maddening secrets of desire:
It's a hellmouth that devours you in your sleep;
A fever that creeps up on you in silence;
A flame that grows to a funeral pyre.

Yet I can't shake the effect of my desire for you -
The very sight of you inflames me -
I set out along the path I know so well -

A path where pleasure and pain secretly conspire -
Cloud my reason and plunge me into the deep
Confines of passion's cell in the seventh circle of hell
Where I must pay the Devil’s required tribute.

I pay it willingly; there's nothing I can do.
I'm pledged to you despite dire consequences
For treading on this path between heaven and hell.

"The Verisimilitude of You"


Tangle curse there's a movement in the tall weeds
Moving through
Snake-man foster-child do you remember me
Blue-skied and tender
False ginger growing beneath the pines
I remember you
The summer night was a tiger tight and oh but was it hot
You are diamond
You are sea eyes
All roses know your name
Moonlight pushing the back of your head
Following the rise of your step
On partial ground
Stories of bottle green on a bedside table

You never said the words I needed
Only your soft hair
With my fingers running through it
Only your arms and torso light as a purring engine
Engine of precision
Perfect meeting of piston and spark
Riding through the fragile rain
The mists of our arms so almost not
Here you are here you are not
Some losses are all losses are every empty space
And you my unconceded are always that

Where you are is where I am
Walking through autumn light
Following your lengthening
To the lowering mists
I climb your stairs in winter light
Stone cold broken angels under me
The light around your bed is snow-light
I would make an angel there
Lying on your white
What I have learned by heart
The sweep of my dangerous body
The beat of your breath through my veins

a hay(na)ku of longing

desire?
just this:
to know myself.

Home

Despite my years of fighting to escape,
to settle somewhere all my own,
no risk of running into those
who’ve known me all my life,
I finally found myself—what I
thought I was seeking all along—
but I’ve found myself alone,
untethered, in a place where
no one knew me when, where
no one calls me by name.

I read the paper here, looking past
the local news. I feel so free I fear
I’ll one day float right out of sight,
and I have no words for the deep well
of longing I feel in me at night: I long
for old friends, familiar faces,
hearing my name in local places.
I long to find my way without a map,
navigating by where things used to be.
I long for you. I love for you to long for me.

Nancy Posey

Lake Longing
(a stanza in Rime Coueé)



Stranded, struggling on dry land
Muse in mourning, pen in hand
………she aches for lake.

Floating, flowing, sweet waves spanned
She bows her head, prays the sand
………her soul to take.

For Yesterday

I wish that I had held on to
it tighter, not lazed it away with wishes
or scorn, considered the sun distanced by cold
a friend, the wind someone I might meet
later. But I was careless and I cannot
long for something where I was lesser.

Remember When...



Do you remember those gone days

back in the past when we used to

listen to art – the imprinted chords

on cassette tapes and cool records?

Do you remember those days back,

back when we used to take pictures

with thirty-five millimeters,

had them hanging like wall fixtures?

Framed in the hall, after the dark room?

And we used typewriters at work,

perhaps at home we had a loom...

Can you remember with a smirk?

Thirty cents was the price of gas

and hinges and knobs were made of brass.

Do you remember your first class?

And all that mess, the screaming kids

unfamiliar, like unmatched lids.

It's like watching an old movie

when I remember all these things.

But for me now, all is groovy

no longing for what past, no strings.



© Rosangela C. Taylor / 04-27-09

Reposting from April 27 -

Longing for loved ones - past and present

I just want them to be happy;
have love in their lives
and be well.

Some days I want it so much,
it hurts. And I pray
to who knows Who
or Whom
they will have these things.

Some I will never see again.
But I hope. I pray. I long for them
to have love.

Longing to Laugh


His gift was happiness.
He had a whole vocabulary
of laughter -- chortles, chuckles,
twitters, giggles, guffaws --
needed only to laugh out loud and
an epidemic would break out.

Unwilling to abide sorrow or
monotony, he’d tell a joke,
perform a trick, dance, sing,
play the clown, anything --
to lighten a weighty moment.

I miss his face, his eyes, his smile,
his laughter, but most of all, I miss
his ability to make me laugh,
even in grief -- especially in grief.

More than anything in the world,
right here, right now,
I so long to laugh.

Solo

Hindsight at midnight, hushed unpleasant moonlight.
Moon dappled dishes he used hours ago here.
Jasmine, a canyon, a soft moan to starlight.
Wasted, wasted moon.

Robert, I just want to say two things. 1. GREAT POEM! Love "The Librarian 2. THANK YOU for all the effort you have put into this event. YOU ARE AMAZING. It has been wonderful and challenging. Personally, I don't find writing poetry "fun" in the least. I love it immensely, but "fun" has never been a word I would use. Gut-wrenching, anxiety-provoking, frustrating...ultimately rewarding, yes, absolutely, but it's not really fun for me. But that is just me. Anyway, what I wanted to say is that this PAD Challenge has been immensely rewarding and I have loved being a part of it. I would also like to mention that I am sure the computer problems have been much more taxing for YOU than for any of us, so THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart.
Alison

April 27, 2009 poetry prompt: longing

Icing On the Cake

Her husband took out this great big life insurance policy
before he got hit by a train, like for a couple million
and then she met this guy who got a million
for falling off this other guy's horse
and now he takes care of her kid
while she sits in the hot tub
with her book club ladies drinking pink chardonnay
while her yellow corvette sits in her driveway
next to the lawn with the new sprinkler system
and she’s got a lawsuit going with this trampoline company
saying they owe her all this money because
the bottom dropped out from underneath her
and she’ll get some more money for that
and she hopes it’ll be enough to make her happy.
I was hoping to be able to pay my electric bill
this month, but if I can pay this month’s next month
it’ll leave me just enough leftover to make a yellow cake
with chocolate frosting, though I guess it would be okay
if I had to settle for white as long as it’s not bitter.

~~ Julie Eger

I don't remember my comments from yesterday exactly, but I'll try to get the gist of them:

Cheryl, thank you for your poem "Longing". The same has been true for me.
TaunaLen, "Ocean Floor"; Janne, "JUST A DREAM"; Lynn Potter; your poems are beautiful, thank you.
Judy, your poem is so true.
Kathy Booker, I loved your haiku.
And for the writer of the poem about longing for the phone to be answered, if that is about you, I hope you get your wish and that it would be a good thing.

And to many others whose poems I have not been able to comment on, thank you, it has been a pleasure sharing in your lives.

April 27 – longing

Longing

Longing for the end of these dark, dreary days,
Waiting for gray clouds to disappear.
Longing for warm breezes and a lifting of the haze,
Waiting for spring’s breakthrough, sunny and clear.

27/04/2009 11:05:20 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)
Day 27 Longing

Your majesty shines in all I see, in the birdsong that I hear.
I know that You accompany me, that You are always near.
I desire to be worthy, to give you constant praise,
to have You reign in every thought all of my earthly days.

You have promised heaven, eternity in the light
and require only that I believe and trust with all my might
in the redeeming sacrifice of Your only begotten Son,
the Lord Jesus Christ, the true and holy One.

Though I weep at the fall of night, joy comes in the morning.
With all my heart, mind, soul and strength, I am truly yearning
to see only Your blessed face at the moment of my death,
and till then, to honor You with my every breath.

Repost...


Longing

My heart and soul is open
To the idea of romance
To the idea of love

My heart and soul is open
To the idea of forever
To the idea of you

My heart and soul is open
With a longing so dear
With a longing I fear

Slidell, 2009

What hurts is not the closed stores,
the scrub trees where I used to ride
my twelve-speed; these things
happen over time no matter if
storm surge crumbles levee or not.
I haven't lived there for twenty years--
I don't recognize much when I drive
through on my way to New Orleans
for vacation. My side of town was dead
even before I left; it just hadn't
fallen down. But boats weren't in trees
when I drove Highway 11 to deliver pizza
to people on Rat's Nest Road the way
they still are today. Burned out
fishing camps unclaimed since the storm--
creosote pilings, half a floor, two walls,
roof remnants collapsed inward.
Not even the marsh has reclaimed it
as it must, some day. Bait the crab traps,
sling the cast nets wide, skim flatboats
across the mucky water, tear it down
if you must. Just don't let it rot.

Loons cry in the night
moss clings to the camphor trees
I hug myself home.

Longing

She stands in front of the bathroom mirror
staring at the crumpled cups where her breasts should be,
considering how much toilet paper it would take
to show the seventh grade that she really did need a bra.

A Few Wishes

I wish you’d stop pulling my sleeve
or pinching my leg when I make it
through a minute without thinking
of you. I wish one of us wouldn’t
yearn and the other wouldn’t wish
to be, well, yearned. I wish you’d find
another place where you could erect
a house, raise some chickens, share
a milkshake that isn’t forbidden, and
write me letters that you don’t send.

PAD- April 2009
Prompt: Longing

Sweets

We are in Ferrara’s, a fancy dessert
trap in Little Italy.
Smells like bitter espresso
and sweet ricotta cheese.

Unlike spicy General Tso’s chicken
he just wolfed down in Chinatown,
my twenty three year old son takes his time.
He savors each bite of tiny chocolate
cannoli, strawberry tart, and éclair.
A mound of whipped cream on the side
stabbed by two dark chocolate razors.
His girlfriend slurps hazelnut gelato
from a chocolate waffle sprinkle cone.
I request three extra spoons,
crunch a flaky Napoleon
with my husband, insisting
everyone taste.

When my son shoves
the leftover whipped cream
plate back and forth with me
like a hockey puck as
though he were six, I know
he loves me.

When my husband
does it I know
he wants me.

For tomorrow’s breakfast,
we buy Sfogliatella,
a clam shaped pastry stuffed
with ricotta and fruit.
For my absent daughter,
mini chocolate cannolis.
She plays inner tube water
polo at the Y.

In the morning, my son
calls from Pittsburgh,
“We just landed.”

We miss them already.

© Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009

Same Old, Same Old

In 5th grade I stole quarters
from the teachers desk.
I wanted them, wanted them
though now I don’t remember
why. It felt right as they jingled
in my pocket. And oh, those
five quarters satisfied me, satisfied me
for about an hour. Then, feeling
sick and remorseful, I wanted
to be rid of them, wanted them gone.
I longed to give them back.
I made a neat row on the ground
where we lined up after lunch
and made a big show
of finding them. It was a kind
of confession. Here’s a confession—
that urge to pilfer steals over me even
today. Craving, yearning, hunger,
wish and want never cease.



?

Captive

I stare at the cage I’ve built
It's so sturdy all around
No windstorm or quake could tilt
Or knock it to the ground

Much like Holmes's "One Hoss Shay"
It is flawless to a "T"
That's the source of my dismay
You see, it encircles me

Longing For You

I stand gazing out the window,
wishing you were here with me.
I miss you more each passing day.
Come home and set my heart free.

I long to feel your tender touch,
the gentle caress of your fingertips.
I long to taste your sensual mouth,
place delicate kisses upon your lips.

I Wish

I wish I had my house to myself
for a week. I’d clean it from
top to bottom. From front
to back. I’d turn rock music on
so loud my neighbors might
call the cops. Scrub the floors
without worry of wheelchair tracks.
Vaccuum without someone hopping
beside the vacuum cleaner like
a rabbit. Clean the bathrooms
without someone tapping impatiently
to get in. Organize my bookshelves
without tiptoeing over a PS3 and
all its wires. Redo my office I started
last July. Wipe the grease spots off
my kitchen ceiling without anyone
asking me to move my chair to get
to the refrigerator. Wash, scrub,
vacuum, dust, dejunk, and organize
without stopping to get meals besides
my own. And when I needed to get out,
I’d start on the yard.

long

as it takes the phone
to ring after
giving it up too
soon again.

as the four minutes
after peeing on a stick &
praying for no second
pink positive line.

as the ladies line after
the third pint in a bar
that is a Southern California
Columbia snowstorm.

as it takes the receptionist
to call to clear after the
yearly spread in the
bad-girl stirrups.

as however long it
is until the clothes have
been gathered from
where they fell.

as the years since it
became a glass-topped
wall guarding whatever it
used to be before

Tiny hearts in the margins

Love letters wrought with wit,
tiny hearts in the margins,
visually supporting
lines of writ, descending
into a stream of codes
between yellow and white
lines

but the letter, water-stained,
written in a faint pencil
(faint from age)
Carefully folded into squares
with enough
room to write both their names
on it, like a Christmas gift:
“to and from”

transported him back to those
wireless days circa 1993,
senior year, the future,
an unformed road with an
interstate of possibilities


before he broke her heart
in slow motion, reducing
his calls to few, then to zero;
he liked her the way
an eighteen year-old
likes a lot and calls it sort of love,
so quick he was to remove
her from his present and future,
shift her and her elaborate
letters to the past

“together 4 ever”

and she signed her name,

remarking that it was cute
they had the same middle
initial and how she had missed
him during 7th period

tiny hearts tucked away in those
cramped margins, losing definition
every year it marks
its own anniversary

H.G. Wells and Doctor Emmett Brown
created time machines made of
metal parts, but all you actually needed
were trees willing to sacrifice
for the greater good of teenage angst

this was years before technology
changed the way lovers loved
and communicated – pencil points
broke and were re-sharpened or
ink pens petered out…………..
years before that, the ultimate
multiple choice question
predated the SATs: “Do you like me?
Yes. Or No.” little circles to be filled
in by a number 2 pencil

His own children would never really
know the thrill of opening a perfumed
letter, or a letter violated by a tennis
sneaker, tread-marked between classes,
courtesy of an angry or disappointed boy
or girl, who didn’t get the response they
expected

sometimes, when the kids are asleep
and his wife is in the other room
watching TV, he pulls out the letters
kept in a tin can he’d won at the local
state fair; his mind turning
to that alternate universe they
could have created together,

to see those tiny hearts in the margins
always brought a smile to his face,
and made him wonder if ever she
remembered writing them, or like the
graphite, had those memories too,
faded, descending into a stream of codes
between yellow
and white
lines

Longing for the Sun

I've been tucked away in this dark closet
for much too long now it seems
I'm getting squished and I'm covered in dust
Sunshine and light are all that I dream

I know I'm her favorite pair of sandals
Birkenstock - they're still all the rave
I have formed to her feet with much comfort
I know this, so please get me out of this cave!

Rumor has it that Spring is here
So I know that it's almost my time
I'm just getting antsy to go out and play
in the light and the bright Sunshine

'Fire in the belly'
a sweet synonym for longing
Stirring up the body's passion;
Craving what it cannot hope to hold!

Fire rages uncontrolling
burning
....lusting
.......crawling
............fighting
Empty flames reach futher
wanting to surfeit the hunger
only to engulf their fiery fingers
that can never hope to hold.

Though it isnt Tuesday I feel a longing to submit a second poem:

Just a liitle ditty

I want to go a-wandering
a long the mountain streams
and as I walk I yearn to sing
about love's pretty dreams.
The rain is falling all around
The leaves have all turned green
The pond's glass skin is bright and clear
The air is really clean.
I want a man to care for me
and love me all my life.
I hope he'll buy me pretty things--
I'd be a happy wife.

Seventeen

I spent the last few years longing for freedom,
adventure, the unknown, but as I stand here
alone, suitcase in hand, blinking
in the bright California sunlight, I suddenly
catch myself wishing for nothing more
than to spot a familiar face in this crowd
and to sleep in my own bed tonight.

Liberation

She longs to escape the bars of her flesh
Another cell in a long line of prisons
Soon to culminate in a wooden box

Fortunate the young girls who won’t know
What it’s like to move from one jail to the next
Knowing only death truly liberates

looking for you

the love for you stays burning
even though the fuels been long gone,
and as we past the second year
the yearnings still so very strong;
i pass by your old house
just to see if your still there,
then the reality starts to hit
so I let my imagination do the stare.
the smell of your perfume
sometimes leads me on a chase,
at the end is someone elses grandma,
sitting in what should be your place.
a million tears fall in your garden,
all from off my face,
i went there looking for you
but still couldnt find a single trace.
the longing of your presence
puts a dampness on my heart,
but its the longing of your presence
that lets me know we're not to far apart

Voyage

Whitman was 36 before he was seen,
yet I needn't be fully Whitman, perhaps
just a boy of wit, a straight spine on a shelf,
whose owner doesn't share my name.

How unremarkable my years, my notes,
my letters, my penmanship, how vagrant
my wishes, five o'clock shadows, riding
trains until I was man by any definition.

The face that greets me in the window
is white and frail, not by age but by
how strongly the images beyond it
are rendered in the sun, but it smiles:

anything awaited for at port is worth
praying for at a lighthouse, my heart
is restless on rations, but how many
dreams come without a voyage?

I wrote the words
I need them read
The mantra chimes
Inside my head

At all times
Never ceasing
Always bleating
I need them read

Aubade
for Bill

This morning, overcast,
the sky grim and resolute, my mood
the same since the door swung shut
and the house lost half its breath.
One side of the bed grows cooler,
one plate won’t be at the breakfast table,
one mug will have no steam rising.
By evening, there will be nothing to say,
no more tears to furrow my cheeks,
nothing to do but sleep
and dream of nothing but you.

Ok, here goes again

Aubade
for Bill

This morning, overcast,
the sky grim and resolute, my mood
the same since the door swung shut
and the house lost half its breath.
One side of the bed grows cooler,
one plate won’t be at the breakfast table,
one mug will have no steam rising.
By evening, there will be nothing to say,
no more tears to furrow my cheeks,
nothing to do but sleep
and dream of nothing but you.

Day 27 repeated

A long ago longing

My longing was belonging
until I belonged to you;
and as your "belonging"
you told me what I could do.
You told me what to wear
How to walk and what to say;
and when I took a job
you also took my pay.

You also let me know about
the things I shouldn't do.
I shouldn't speak to anyone
unless I was with you.
Later I deduced, that was
mental abuse, pounding down
on me all the long day.

At long last,I came to my senses
at the age of thirty three.
Those abuses became physical
which finally set me free.
I then belonged to nobody else
My body belonged only to me.

The Tao of Green

The philodendron trails
a heart-leafed path over
the bookcase under the
lamp, through the desk
to the window where
it hangs on the curtain rod
all loops, leaning into the sun.

Day 27 repeated

A long ago longing

My longing was belonging
until I belonged to you;
and as your "belonging"
you told me what I could do.
You told me what to wear
How to walk and what to say;
and when I took a job
you also took my pay.

You also let me know about
the things I shouldn't do.
I shouldn't speak to anyone
unless I was with you.
Later I deduced, that was
mental abuse, pounding down
on me all the long day.

At long last,I came to my senses
at the age of thirty three.
Those abuses became physical
which finally set me free.
I then belonged to nobody else
My body belonged only to me.

sorry my poem posted twice (three times if ya count the one that disappeared from yesterday! Honestly folks, I am not trying to over-post here! ( I know I know, one poem a day! LOL)

An Umbrian Hill Town Holds My Heart

Of the sunflower fields below the Roman wall,
stalks and heads now without color in acres

of rows bordered by deep green hedgerows;
of the tile roofs wheeling slopes between wall

and flowered acres like a stilled avalanche
of serenity without havoc; of the museum

with its shards of Etruscan life, tools hard-won
from excavations, and Renaissance paintings

by Masters out of time – I long for the piazza,
wide flagstones stretching from gelato bars

to cathedral steps, iron tables in front of cafes
with yellow cloth covers and handfuls of old men

drinking coffee or compari, grappa or cocoa,
young mothers pushing prams with children too young

to play hide-and-seek down the cobbled alleys
or in and out of small stores where

the store-keepers smile and send them on,
remembering, perhaps, when they hid in this same

safe place.

April

Well, then, the affair
is
over
and we have
drifted back to the
grey skies
of this
Los Angeles spring.

The sun comes as a
surprise we
wallow in briefly
before it again
disappears into
the fog of
the Pacific,
which brings no
rain to quench
our thirst
and smells
of fuel
from the airport
miles away,
but west.

Makes me long for
this season
to end
or to have not begun.
I wish it were still winter:
evergreen
and clear.

[This is the repost of my poem for day 27]


Longing to be free

Addictions bring the fastest high,
but quickly fail and go awry.
I fought the urge with all I'm worth.
Now past the half-way point in life
I know my habits cause the strife

I feel every time I cave
and try to swim against the wave
of where my spirit tries to lead.
In prayer I lift my hands to plead
for God to free me from my curse.
He tells me I must cease to nurse

those grievances I've gripped too tight
to gain false justice by my might.
Vengeance is the right Divine
and only He can choose to shine
His Love upon a wretch like me.
So often I refused to see

why Christ would die for all of man.
Now older, I embrace the plan
which freely offers heaven's joy
to all those sinners we'd destroy,
for time has shone I'm one of them;
all creation is a gem!

Summer Fun

Young and innocent, days of fun,
Summer times out in the sun.
Playing hopscotch with a friend.
Hating for the day to end.

Family picnics with good food,
not letting ants and bugs intrude.
Exploring the forest, picking berries,
Chasing bugs, pretending their faeries.

Relaxing lazily under in the grass,
wishing summer didn't pass so fast,
In retrospect, to tell the truth,
I so very miss my youth.

April echoes

the five a.m. alarm clock
scares me awake
from fitful
nightwatch sleep
even behind eyelids
crises continue to
reinvent themselves
i shower, dress and
enter the sick room
mother grins
“fancy meeting you here”
voice like velvet

and so begins
a light banter
before I shift
into automatic
full speed ahead
making breakfast
pouring tea
and an ice-cold coke
heating chili or soup
for lunch-time thermos
(thank goodness
for Depends)

i hand over the paper
cover the bed
with books and
photograph albums.
relocate the
radio station
she will lose
within minutes
of my leaving
i proofread
last night’s words
typed on antique
Royal typewriter
no computer here
and I’m out the door

in Systems seminar
my turn to present
paper on incest
classmates weep
at passages from
“The Family Secret”
i grab lunch with Jose
and it’s on to The Door
work/study placement
Roseanna is waiting
it’s Thursday
our session day
she speaks only to me
the books say we’ve bonded
i call it love

emergency phone call
mother has fallen
she promises
not to move
and she doesn’t
i touch her cheek
her words like honey
“we’ve got to stop
meeting like this”
i settle her in
she wants ice cream
and so do I

a typical day in’ 87
she died the next spring
drawn out drama complete
i’ve reclaimed time,
space, my life
yet there are days
when remembering
golden voice
Dorothy Parker wit
relentless spirit
I drift, barely afloat in longing

Spinning

On the back of the puffed rice cereal box
Was a magic wand I cut out and fastened together
With a beautiful gold brad, from my grandmother’s
Queen Anne desk. I sit in the backyard,
Under her weeping willow, spinning the top
Of the wand round and round, certain that
If I believe just the right amount –
Don’t be too selfish – I can conjure up
A stunning blue satin ballgown, just like the one
The bluebird brought to Cinderella.
In no time, I exhausted the entire afternoon,
Entranced with the power of creativity at my fingertips,
Until I finally understood that it was nothing more
Than a piece of cardboard that got me to beg
My mother to buy the cereal in the first place.
Today, I spent the day interviewing experts
About H151 versus H5N1 viruses, closed borders,
Tamiflu, business continuity plans, and social distancing.
If only they still put magic wands on the back of
Cereal boxes, I’d sit under the pear tree in my back yard,
And just keep spinning that wand round and round.

My Angel Fell

My angel fell last night.
There was a monsoon and she tumbled off the balcony
into the yard below.
Her face broke off and her wings got bent.
I remember when she came to me
You brought her
It was an accident you said
One that was supposed to happen
So not really an accident at all
My neighbor brought her up to me in the morning
I glued her back together again
but she’ll never really be the same
Perhaps she was trying to fly away to find you
And bring you back to me
I’d like to think that’s what happened
But really…..
It was just a monsoon.

Longing for summer

Discontented, delirious desire
to lick that fudge thick craving
from warm melted rich chocolate
flowing creamy dark sweetness
dripping down your throat,
ecstatically enraptured
aromatic olfactory
tollhouse enthralled,
bittersweet yearning
sticky caramel enriched
passionate need for
hometown dairy delight.

To Make the Angels Cry

What I wouldn't give
to make the angels cry from joy
at the beauty of my song.

Rainbow notes fluttering
heavenward on the wings of praise -
ever higher, ever purer.

The attendants of God instead
clasp hands to ears and weep
at my grotesque wailing.

“When Tool Academy Meets (Insert Name Here) of Love: (An Ode to Daisy De La Hoya)”

You first found yourself
crushed and exasperated
when Bret Michaels dumped
your ass in front of millions
on Rock of Love 2. (Not
surprised that didn’t work
out so well for him.)

Then you took a beat-down
as Heather, in her prostitute
heels and Matrix/WWE wrestler
leather frock coat, repeatedly
punched you in the head. (Once
again in front of millions.)

Now you’ve aligned yourself
with “Metal Historian”
Riki Rachman, and are locking
yourself in a mansion with
fifteen borderline psychotic
money grubbing whores
(who have more of a toolish
quality than endearing.)

Your trek for love is unending.
Your spirit is contagious.
However, the pull of money
must be playing with your
mind thinking you’ll actually
find love, since Flavor Flav,
Bret, New York, and Real
and Chance have all been
so successful in the same
honorable quest.

I want to give,
to my mother;
her every wish.

I want to see,
for my siblings;
a future bright.

I want to write,
for my self;
enrich my life.

I want to click,
for my friends;
render delight.

I want to live,
In a world;
where I belong.

“To R”

Longing for you,
Is like nothing I’ve ever gone through before…

All of my tears were cried for you,
More than any other boy.

You were my first everything,
My first love,
My first serious relationship,
My first French,
And many more countless firsts.

I’m like a baby,
Starting all over,
But only longing for you…

What if you were the one,
And I just fucked it up?

What if you were the one,
And I’m still in love with you?

I am reposting this poem only because the prior version above was not complete, I copied from the wrong file...


Longing to be free

Addictions bring the fastest high,
but quickly fail and go awry.
I fought the urge with all I'm worth
nine years beyond my mortal birth.
Now past the half-way point in life
I know my habits cause the strife

I feel every time I cave
and try to swim against the wave
of where my spirit tries to lead.
In prayer I lift my hands to plead
for God to free me from my curse.
He tells me I must cease to nurse

those grievances I've gripped too tight
to gain false justice by my might.
Vengeance is the right Divine
and only He can choose to shine
His Love upon a wretch like me.
So often I refused to see

why Christ would die for all of man.
Now older, I embrace the plan
which freely offers heaven's joy
to all those sinners we'd destroy,
for time has shone I'm one of them;
all creation is a gem!

Seems I’ve been waiting
All my life.
As a child, as a mother
As a wife.
Longing for a day of rest
One full of peace – the best.

I’ve seen Nature’s glory
Heard the old old story
But there must be more
Hinted at from days of yore.

Hard work and hard play
Punctuates every day
But I’m longing for a day of rest
One full of peace – the best.

I know it’ll come
When I least expect
I won’t even run
But I’ll be suspect.

Thanks Barbara, I'm glad you liked it. Your poem is very good, some powerful imagery.

The Longing

He wakes up in the morning
And rolls out of bed
He wobbles to the bathroom
To start his day.

He labors to get into the shower
He can't see his feet as he washes himself
He feels heavier
And it bothers him.

He puts on his pants
But they are too tight
His shirt feels like
It will rip at the seams.

But all he can think about is breakfast.

He holds himself to oatmeal and toast
Though his body craves more
He must tell it no.

He struggles to get into his car
It seemed so much smaller then
As he drives to work
He marvels at the thin bodies on the street.

He makes it to the parking lot
Then gasps as he makes the walk to the office
He is sweating when he reaches the door
The walk seemed easier before.

He avoids the stairs
And catches the elevator instead
He reaches his floor
But is still hungry.

He thinks about burgers
As he stares at the screen
But when lunch comes
He has only a bagel.

When the day ends
His stomach is still growling
He avoids the main street
So he won't see his favorite fast food places.

Now at home
He looks at himself in the mirror
He pats his round belly and says
"Never used to be this big."

He awaits dinner like a child on Christmas morning
But all he will allow himself
Is a lean frozen meal.

Watching television is a nightmare
Fast food commercials here
People eating during his favorite shows
He can't escape the pull.

He finally succumbs and orders a pizza
The next day they find the empty box
Lying atop his prone body.

to the top of your tower

I would climb
your white stem
scale your heights

stroll against dark
against -- yellow? no, gold

I would
peer into your distance
your violet, rose madder

yet there you are
stark
white

beneath my feet

you don't even notice
don't even know
I would climb

petits brins
petits brins en balade

"Danny's Diner on High Street"

He first saw her inside a coffee shop
where he made it a habit not to go,
infected as it was with junkie ʼhos,
until the night he saw her, then he stopped

avoiding the café, his guard was dropped.
And after every shift that’s where he showed
up for some coffee, said his name was Joe,
ignored the fact he was a rookie cop.

Heh. She could smell Five-O, knew what he was;
the owner taught her how when she was hired,
to spot the swaggering, the nodded “Hi.”

His partner told him to quit going “ʼcuz
she ain’t worth it.” The next night, shots were fired
but Joe wasn’t fast enough. The girl died.

Longing

I wanted,
I needed,
I begged,
I pleaded,
I coveted,
I must,
I craved,
I lust,
I hungered,
I yearned,
I hankered,
I burned,
I pined,
I panted,
I thirst,
I ranted,
I longed,
I itched,
For what
I pitched.

LONGING

smelling food cooking
hunger pains through mid section
sneaking through kitchen.

Longing for a Limo

I am riding sideways
up Fig

Score
1 crying baby
with frazzle-haired mom
sister and brother
1 crazy lady
with overstuffed cart
who yells unprintable things
only once in a while
2 iPod kids
2 old gents in
too short polyester pants
smelling of bad cigars
1 nameless blob
way in the back
assumed to be human
and me
1 weird woman prone
to cheap bling and
big novels

So I'm riding sideways
up Fig

My ears have
gone numb from
the B52 blast
of the air conditioning
and it's too bumpy
to read so I watch
the town go by
through the sticky windows
and my time is
not my own
I can't just stop
and smell the panaderia
or visit any
random places
strictly point A
to point B
for me

And my mind
starts slipping
sideways and I see
the back of my
chauffeur's head
just above
the little fridge
and I say
"I need some
bulgogi, a boba tea,
more bling!"
and he drops
me perfectly
chilled like
a bottle of
champagne
wherever I want
and all the
packages go
right in the trunk
and

My stop arrives
with a whap
of doors
a rush of
warm soot air
but I descend
the bus steps
like a limo land
princess
with a royal wave
and a smile

breathing in the city

soot gray and sulfur yellow
smokestack plumes
streets and alleys choked
with traffic fumes

blasts of dust exhaled
from subway grilles
reek along the waterfront
from sewage spills

little did I think
on moving here
I would long so very much
for air

“Youth”

I long for days past.
When my hair was dark.
My energy high.
My hands and wrists did not ache.

Where did the time go?
How did I get fat?
Even a short walk tires me.
But I will not give in.

Youth or no youth,
The fat is going,
The energy is rising.
I will not give in.

Wanting My Doppleganger, My Double, Who Sings with Birds in Her Mouth in a Bar in New Mexico


She is dying again
of love, from walking too far
through desert, mouth dry and longing for
her last lover. She sings through it—
to the rough men
with tattoos of snakes that curl
over their sun-burned bodies
that seem to be breaking
or pushing away from earth,
to the women who know
her song.

She is dying again
in this bar, smoke filling
her lungs, she has given blood
for money, but thinks
that it’s a fair trade:
part of her body
to go to another body
to bring her here where
she is weightless
with the whiskey that enters
her head, she believes
that crows are flying
out of her mouth,
they keep her singing, they keep
her from floating
too far from the ground.

Racy Book

Inspired by the film, The Remains of the Day

Row after row of erudite tomes,
red leather spines limply regal,
seeking a book on the shelves
to pass some quiet time in his
underused quarters, Mr. Stevens
recalls an old favorite, selects a
novel with a lovingly tattered cover,
and heads back to his parlor.
She enters strident with purpose,
carrying a vase and carefully picked
flowers from the lordship’s garden.
She asks him what he is reading.
Barely acknowledging her, he replies
it is a book. She asks whether it is a
racy book, since the title is obscured by a
clutched hand, some mischievous impulse
of hers brought on by a day of supervising
restless domestics recklessly dreaming of
new lives, in a new era where even the
commoners can dream. But worries of
staff turnover cannot concern her now, she
needs to know what he is reading, flirt with
him a little. She reaches for his pudgy,
manicured fingers, the calloused
fingers of a butler, to see if her
“suspicions” will be confirmed.
One by one, she pries them from the cold,
hard surface of the book. He struggles little,
eyes fixating on her, nose snorting, lips
unmovable, but eventually he succumbs
to her rapacious curiosity. A moment of
tension unbearable descends before she exclaims,
“Oh, it’s just a sentimental, old love story.”
Partially annoyed at the intrusion, he stiffens his
spine and politely asks her to leave. Abashed,
she does so and quietly slams the door. The
charge of her presence takes longer to dissipate
amidst the motes of fading daylight and
unrecoverable overtures of romance.

I am beginning to have end of PAD anxiety. I will miss these prompts, this work. Thanks Robert!!

Untitled, Unnamed

What do we know of longing,
how it sends down roots in the belly
obscures hope with its shade -

Longing infects like a virus
so that in our illness
little pleasures are denied
a lazy breeze in summer
heat from a fire in winter
smell of snow -

Longing has not cat feet to absent itself
but rather the persistence of a weed
no matter how we chop and hack
at the insidious tendrils
those tender green shoots emerge
crowding out anything fruitful –

In the end, we suffer long
unable to feel the sun,
ignored by the moon,
lured by the promise of paradise.

A Shadow

by Therese Haberman

A shadow beckons
Across time’s reach
Remember kissing you
Fever breath against skin

Smooth lines of script
Never left my lips
Far beyond pulse of words
You took me - speechless

A beacon flash
Against inner darkness
Became my scepter
Sated pleasure prince

Ache for your touch
Nurture the infant pain
In empty arms of
Cold abandonment.

Conversation with My Dead Father

All of my longings, he said,
are what would be called
immature. The longing for wealth
from a winning lottery ticket, unearned
and undeserved. The longing
for one more fling, an affair
with someone dark and dangerous
but also beautiful and bold.
She’d walk right up to me
and take me away
to her log cabin hideout
where we’d make love
on a bearskin rug, yes, in front
of a roaring fire. All of my longings,
he said, are immature fantasies,
and no matter what
I won’t let go of them
until something better comes along.
I’ve got you beat, I said.
I long for fame, for a best-selling book.
I long to be recognized
by the paparazzi when I walk down
the Via Veneto wearing what they
will describe as “an ethereal gown.”
I’ll have a man on each arm, a magnum
of champagne, and nowhere to go
but home with them.
Best of all, I added, I’m still alive
so my longings can still come true.