Someone asked me the other day if a poem I had marked as autobiographical was "true". I replied that it was, like most autobiography, fiction based on a true story. The same holds true for the following verse. Here is its true story. I was standing behind a pretty woman named Barbara at work as she bent to get a drink from a water fountain. Unfortunately, she pressed the button too hard, and water squirted down the front of her blouse, soaking it. She immediately turned to me with a smile and asked: "Do you think I'll mildew?" The rest is fantasy.
Your name is missing when I search the net;
Your features arefading when I search my heart.
I'll always remember - when last we met,
We pledged our love, and then we broke apart.
What if I've lost you? What if you've died?
So much to tell you, so much we've missed,
Such years of yearning. Why haven't I tried
Harder to find you, to prove you exist?
The first time I met you, you made a jest,
And I thought: finally, someone I fit.
My heart was like parchment, a palimpsest
To be cleaned and invaded by your gentle wit.
I let you go; I flinched; you went away.
Now I must find you; I've something to say.
A blog about all the arts, including politics
"for 'twere absurd to think that nature in the earth bred gold, perfect in the instant;
there must be remote matter." - Ben Jonson
"I don't know what the question is, but art is the answer." - Guy Conner