“Large frame windows staring out at the sea,
a ballroom restaurant pre-rush and scurry.
Leaned on elbows in white linen caress
her smoky accent winds ’round her dress….”
Stabbed In The Ego
(for that poet)
Am I really not as good, not as inspiring nor mysterious
not even deserving of a couplet, or a quatrain in fixed rhyme?
To be a muse, there must be some fireworks and wine,
to be remembered, pined and worshiped in the dark,
there must be a play to play in, with some memorable lines.
So it wasn’t my smoky voice, my table-clothed restaurant by the sea,
nor was it your nervous passion when you approached our intersection.
My eyes stung in lemon tears, to realize the tidal wave was not for you and I
and no debris of love’s alchemy, nor spuming over- flow contained my name
I collapsed, a big balloon who met her thorn, a hope now pricked to die.
Ahh, The silly luxury of wishing to be someone’s special one,
one who moves a bard to song, a poet to tears, to rhyme or drink
Don’t we all wish to engrave ourselves deeply inside a wandering heart
to be a GPS that tracks their thoughts and poetry back to go,
and then we realize we’re not the starting line? Oh…stabbed in the ego!
LINC Island SL
* How embarrassing! I thought that little excerpt of a poem in the beginning was written for me…then I found out it wasn’t… (cringes but I can laugh about it now) Well it did move my muse to write a few verses…:) and No, not saying who wrote it…I’m just keeping that part to myself.