The 'maybe' belongs
    to your unyielding heart
    you bade farewell
    love you tore apart-

     'maybe' is your childish excuse
     a well-crafted devious art
     the betrayal is written in your very  eyes
     I am glad you did depart.

i
could have
written hundred
of poems

i
could have
seen thousand
of sceneries

i
could have
cried million
of tears

but

it
would never
suffice
my deep feeling
of longing
for your embrace

it
would never
ease the pain
of missing your
presence

The unkindness that marks ten
    is obliterated by the kindness of one
    life's darkness is then dispelled
    it brings glory to the waiting sun

The space between.

A time to sell yourself.

A time for passing.

Sometimes I touch the right.

Too much, the wrong.

Resplendent deterioration
we live by.

With casuistic slogans
and closing doors.

D'you know disembarkment
leads to land sickness?

It does.

And who can then make
heads or tails out of
the qualms of tolerance
and his cousin, ignorance?

The jukebox was the only light
in the tavern.  
We were alone in the dry
recess of a lonely world.
You sang in my ear while
I swayed to your rhythm.

The song was a long low
cry.  I was urgent
in your embrace.  

I am reminded of that night
you walked away from me in
the damp laundry of dawn.

Turn around to face me,
the climate of my lonely
arms.

Hold me again to the tick
of memory so I can,
once more, dance
close to you.

Regardez moi
mon amour.




Caroline Shank

Do I miss you
I can't say that I do

but make no mistake
this is still a love poem

but about loving different
things

about opening my eyes
and smelling

a much different flavor
of coffee

Whit Howland © 2020