There’re so many sad love poems around here.
If you guys need help negotiating love’s slippery *****,
let me offer you, your own, romantic horoscope!:

Don’t court romantic disaster
don’t mistake a lightbulb for the moon
Titanic wasn't a rom com

and a sad update:
Grand romantic gestures don’t happen anymore,
you're lucky to get a vibration in our pocket with a "sorry" text

I know what you're thinking though, “We didn’t know the moon was useless until we landed on it,” but once you’ve ‘landed’ on a guy (or girl), once or twice, it’s too late—you’re likely ‘in it.’

Big picture-wise, I think we all have Shakespeare to thank for unrealistic, romantic storylines. Romeo & Juliet are the perfect example—they meet, fall in love and marry the very next day.

In Shakespeare’s defense though, love in his world-building was always messy and imperfect, and there were few "happily ever after" narratives. (The exception being Beatrice and Benedick, in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’).

In a side note, my weekly horoscope (Libra) for the Thanksgiving holiday reads:
“You’ve become so self-centered, It’s all about you. What about your family? Before you go emo and angry, change your perspective—own it—strive to improve relationships.”
Sarsh (so harsh), in this writer’s opinion.
.
.
(Songs for this):
Love Is In Town by Brenda Boykin
Do You Even Know? by Rae Morris

From my lungs to your ears
And then hopefully your brain
The squishy bit in the midfield
That copes with love and pain
The Hypothalamus spreads
Joy and doom through the land
Secreting oxytocin  
From the pituitary gland

Not to be confused
With the hippopotamus
Which controls memory
Short term not bottomless
That might explain
Why we do it again
And again
Walking the line twixst
Love's
Heaven
And
Hell

(senryu)

autumn's embrace chills,  
it must now be that season,  
falling leaves and all.




(sijo)

The first frost of dawn kisses the withering maple leaves,  
Winds of change sweep the earth, whispering Autumn’s song.  
In this transient dance, memories linger, time stands still.



(chofu)

Under the golden boughs of ancient trees, Autumn sighs,  
As leaves descend in a swirling, endless ballet,  
The earth receives them with a gentle embrace, whispering tales of time.


🍂

I was the youngest of seven children with a docile, simple mother with no emotion who was obedient to my violent and sadistic father.

Suffice to say I was subjected to continual abuse.

I could not pronounce words which led to years of speech therapy.

The therapist seemed to get great delight in every meeting, forcing me to say " Six sizzling sausages frying in a pan" , which resulted in saliva running down my chin and extreme embarrassment.

She always laughed at this.

At age ten, I found myself confused and petrified as she rummaged inside my underwear with her eager hand.

I never went back.

I never told anyone.

I buried myself in books and wrote poetry.

Years later I collated some poems together and sent them to the British Poetry Society ( probably not the correct name).

To my delight I received a hand written letter from their president, giving advice and encouragement.

His name was Spike.

Spike Milligan.

Thank you sir.

He is like a god to me
    alpha of my pack, my rescuer and my rock:
his breath like beef’s bouquet
    his words like brittle bones breaking in my mouth.

Our touch like summer
    as I rest my head on his strong thigh:
gazing adoration
    staring petition.

I stalk him
    for the crumb that falls from his plate:
and wait patiently
    for scraps of skin from his repast.

When indecision strikes
      to eat or not to eat:
He nobly leads me to the door
      and tethered takes me out.

He leads me through
    musky canine
          saffron sage
              scented pastures:
and corrects me when
    squirrels like sins
          tempt me to stray.

We romp through rugs
    of red and russet
          fallen fronds:
foraging for
    foully fragrant food
          delight of doggy dentes.

I am his humble hound:
he my mighty man.