On the sad day I discovered you
Would no longer requite my love,
My world was torn asunder.
I fell to my knees in vain attempt
To cadge some trace of fondness -
Some kindred feeling, perhaps, of love
But alas, there was no shred of
Kindness offered to my plea -
No hope of any love restored,
Which meant the undertaker’s man
Must undertake arrangement of
A testimonial gathering to mourn
The loss of my true love and life.
       ljm

I weep for words that will not dance,
That will not float on wings of thought,
But only thud on solid ground

I weep for songs I cannot sing
The phrases buzz like happy bees
That sting me and then fly away

I weep for souls I cannot touch
With tenderness and hope
Because I reach with crippled hands

I weep for gifts I cannot share
The addressee is marked “unknown”
And it comes back all soiled and torn

I weep because it’s all I know
When nothing blooms from what I plant
And barren soil is all I have to til
ljm

When you’re not newly or madly in love
When no new thrill has come your way
When the sunset is hidden by the smog
And the draught has killed all the flowers

What do you write about

When you’ve suffered no great disappointment
When you’ve won no award or any prize
When you haven’t gambled on love and lost
And the mountains you’ve climbed are just hills

What do you write about

When inspecting your navel is boring
When you can’t really tell how you feel
When you can’t see the humor in pratfalls
And nothing exciting has happened

What do you write about

When everyone you know remains healthy
When the trees in the woods are just trees
When the butterflies don’t visit your garden
And the hummingbird feeder’s abandoned

What do you write about

When you reach for the stars but can’t touch them
When you hear the song but can’t sing it
When you stare at your blackboard and it’s empty
And you’ve run out of ink for your pen

What on Earth do you write about.
ljm

WHAT INDEED

What could make me leave you?
Not any of the things man
Can put his hands upon
And offer me on velvet pillows.
Not golden promises, silver daydreams,
Midnight colored fear or threat
No shining bauble visible through time shall
Lure me from your side

What could make me leave you?
Not any deed to which your hand may turn
Or dagger word that at me may be hurled
By those who look through clouded windows.
Not lack of bread or silky comfort
Nor the stale perfume of age or illness.
No dark moment in the hour that is life shall
Drive me from your side.

What could ever make me leave you?
Only knowing I am not a help to you.
Only realizing that I keep you from attaining
That which guarantees the destiny
Now shining in your eyes.
Only if I felt my weight too much
For you to carry on your way
Then would I, so sadly, leave you.
                 Ls

Being ***** is not a sin.
Staying ***** is.

For kicks I typed into Google my name followed by the word Poetry.
I was taken to a list of several sites showing my name, but the one that got my attention was  "Lori Jones McCaffery: Poetry."  I clicked on that and bam ! there was my whole chronological listing of titles, exactly like you'd find it here.  Anyone can access every poem by clicking on the title. Who put that list on Google?  Is everyone's list on Google too? I didn't give permission to anyone and I'm a bit upset.  It's kind of fun to have all my stuff available to anyone interested but I would have liked to have been asked first because I have been plagiarized before and had to fight for my writing.

The paper drips with red blood from my soul
There’s no ink left in my pen
The clock has used up all its hours
The music of the spheres has ended.

I set out to build a village in a place
Not hard to find without a map
Proudly I used local lumber
Made sure the walls were square and true.

Sadly no one wants to live there
No one stops to hear my song
(Just one clear voice and not an opera )
People look and listen briefly then move on
     ≈
Wandering through the others’ harvests
I see words stacked in random order
Piled like fancy autumn haystacks
Held in place with azure ribbons

Mumbled voices raised in solos
Whose words I cannot parse or learn
Where verses run from one to twenty
And the applause is deafening

What seems real is evanescent
Fleeting as the winking of an owl
Impossible to braid with just two strands
And painted over with graffiti.
   ≈
How am I to fly when it appears
That I can barely walk and yet
I thought that I knew how to dance.
I guess I never found the beat.

I can’t but keep on building sturdy
Little one theme dwellings
It’s the only thing I know
And I’ll live there all by myself

And hope a visitor or two
Will stop by now and then
To say hello and how are you
And share a cup of my brand’s tea.
ljm

Am I the only one who:

1.  Finds every write I post sent to drafts first, and requiring my           wrangling it back out onto my page in order to be seen.

2.  Encounters error 502 not only on trying to post, but on switching    from home screen to messages.

3.  Never sees  half of the comments posted without going back to    look up the write in my index and bringing it up again.  I'm thanking  people for nice things they said over a week ago.  That's not right.

4.  Who has no way to get to anyone else's page unless I see their        
name in a comment they made somewhere else, so I can click on it    and go to their page.  What happened to the index/directory we
once had.

5.  Finds my carefully arranged layout changed when posted, thus
requiring complicated editing to get it back the way I want it.

6.  Felt it necessary to stop my monthly donation to HP because of the way the site has declined, and the refusal of Eliot York to respond
to anyone's e-mails - ever.

EVIL rides in SUVs with the windows all blacked out.

HONOR                drives a plug in car that leaves no resdue behind.

APATHY rides in secondhand Nissans with the clear coat
                                flaking off.

CELEBRATION rides in limos with open tops for standing up in.

TRAGEDY            rides in a long black hearse with all the horses
                                under the hood.

BRAVERY drives a bright red Moped that cuts in and out of
                                traffic.

POVERTY must ride the bus in a much too long commute.

ARROGANCE drives an escalade that’s the fourth left turn on a
                                yellow.

BOREDOM drives a station wagon missing the left rear
                                hubcap.

PANIC        races in the family car where panting and blowing
                              isn't helping.

HAPPINESS       drives almost anything with a baby in the back
                              seat.
                    

MACHO ­       drives a Ford F350 with wheels even bigger than
                               his ego.

MELTING *** preens in a souped-up Chevy that dances like a
                                hip-hop star.    

PRETEEN       rides a bicycle and dreams of a Mustang.

YOUTH      hauls *** in a Jeep Wrangler with the rag top
                             down.

MIDLIFE CRISIS  rides a Harley in a group of seven on weekends.

OLD AGE    drives slowly in an ’83 Chrysler Imperial that
                           won't fit in the parking spaces.

LOVE   floats along on hopes and dreams and has no
                          need of wheels.

ljm

When you are in love
Daybreak brings you fairy dust
Glittering on fields of four-leaf clover.

When you are in love
Crows take music lessons
And sing to you Brahms Lullabies

When you are in love
The clock turns into Jello
And time loses all meaning when together

When you are in love
The Moon becomes your closest friend
And you can tell her all your secrets.

When you are in love
The world becomes a magic place
And you’re the Head Magician.
                 ljm

When evilness is dripping from the trees
And blades of grass are real and cutting you
When the wind comes from a raging furnace
And singes the hair on your trembling arms
When wickedness becomes the music in the air
And treachery the key that starts the engines
When a handshake is somehow pernicious
And wretchedness the flavor of the week

You are in the land of jealous lovers
Loathing what has long been gone
Winners who despise the losers
Living in a boiling rage
That seethes for over 40 years
And taints the mercies of the present
Making it impossible
To ever quench the fires of hate.
           ljm

BY JENNY JOSEPH

When I am a old woman I shall wear pirple with a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.  
And I shall spend my pension on bandy and summer gloves and
satin sandals and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells and run my stick along public railings and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain and pick the flowers in other people's gardens.
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat and eat three pouds of sausage at a go or only eat bread and a pickle for a week and hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes.
But  now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple

When I am old I will say what I think
And not worry to be thought a clown or a fool.

When I am old I will borrow from youth
As guiltlessly as a child robs the cookie jar.

When I am old I will throw away fashion
And dress myself solely in comfort as I please.

When I am old I will share anger I feel
Instead of letting it take bites out of my soul.

When I am old I will walk away quickly
From those who’s motives I find to be suspect.

When I am old I will sleep in my chair
And have picnics on my bed if I so choose.

When  I am old I will go to the places
That in youth I deemed not appropriate.

When I am old I will will buy stuff that sparkles
Simply because I like shiny things.

When I am old I will sing when I feel it
And not fret that my voice isn’t pretty.

When I am old I will pet everyone’s puppies
And laugh as they lick all over my face.

When I am old I will  stop tearing up like a fool
When parade marching bands with their banners go by.

When I am old I will be sprung from this prison
Referred to as rational adult behavior.

When I am old.

Yes, when I am old.

ljm

There used to be an index function on HP.  You could type in a name and be taken to that person's home page and their poetry.  It went away, and though I complained to Eliot York about the loss, it has not returned. He promided it would.
So I resort to this method, clumsy as it is.
There are others on my "Missing in Action" list.  Stay tuned.

Where have the daily poems gone?  
That’s how I start my day, and I miss them.
June 27 was the last date one showed on my Mac.  
Was nothing worthy in the ensuing week?  
Is Eliot unwell?  Who chooses the Dailies?
Is that person also unwell.
Does anybody know anything.
Somebody tell me something.
                        ljm

Drowning in pools of despair
That are almost ankle deep,
The uncaring who go stomping by
Keep splashing me with sadness
Mud that dries and bleaches out my tan.

Wallowing in bathtubs of self pity
I have no one to help me get
The temperature just right
And pour a few more bubbles in
With a towel held at the ready.

Gazing into mirrors of self doubt,
I see I’m not the first in line
For anything but second place-
And I was promised more than that
By the Prince on his white Stallion.

Hiding in the shadows of Narcissus,
I refuse to share my grief
With those unworthy to take part
In my universe destroying angst.
They only want to drag me to the exit.

I will not be moved by them.
I dug this cave with my own hands,
And I will not be forced to leave it
For some flimsy happiness
That won’t last past my lifetime.

What would I be if you took away
My special brand of ennui.
I’d be just another smiley face
In a world that’s overrun with them
And that I could not bear.

So go away - don’t splash the mud.
I’ll get my towel myself.
I’ll find a way to lose the race
And become a worldwide icon
As the Queen of Molehill Mountain.
ljm

Which face will I wear today
    The face I wear at work
          Cheerful member of the staff
          Underpaid - unappreciated
           Tiny office with no window
           Paperwork nobody looks at
           Rules just for the sake of rules

Which face will I wear today
      The face I wear at home
            Always tired, depressed, besieged
            by a thousand minor ailments
            All the things I'd like to do
             crowded out by other things
             I have to do that are no fun.
      
Which face will I wear today
      The face that sports a poet's cap
            Gel filled quill pen clutched in hand
            Trying every format I can learn
            Gleaning from the published experts
            Writing happy after years of sad
            Finding sunshine in the shadows that I live in

Which face will I wear today
      The face above the helping hands
            that reach for places to be used
            That garner joy from mucking in
            to smooth the path for others
            Seldom thanked - often refused
            Bucket goal - to save a life.

Which face will I wear today
      The face that looks back from the mirror
            Mapping all the tracks of age
            Searching for the sparkle in the eyes
            that joined hands with my youthful looks
            and did a conga-line away

Which face will I wear today
      Picasso portrait of them all
            Ill and hale - strong and weak - sad and glad
            When seen together in the mirror
            it's a face I do not know
            and someone I don't care to meet

So check the clock and choose a face
    Paste it on and smooth it out
        Comb hair over all the edges
             **** the light and close the door
                 And take this face out for a walk
                       See if anybody says hello
                                           ljm

Spectacular birth in a mundane time and place.
Childhood a half step lower than the middle ground
But happy in the lack of knowing it was so.
Sparks of brilliance catching a teacher’s eye
And the dice rolled out a better score for me.
Escape became adventure and knowledge a goal
But half a loaf was not enough and I was hungrier
For newer vistas and more shiny possibilities.
I almost made it happen, but the deck was stacked
Another way and years eluded efforts to that goal.
A glowing bridge let me cross over tracks behind me
And the Glossy years flew past on silver skis.
Achievement and creative life gave birth
to a shining hope that melted into painful failure.
A phony guru led the way and everything upturned itself.
The world slid right to left and ended upside down .
Exciting once and later not so much at all.
The changes added to the passing of more years
When happiness came often wrapped in guilt.
Making do became the mantra, along with getting by
Until the other shoe crashed to the floor
And left a painful footprint on the golden years.
New vistas were the only hope and proved
To be salvation and a challenge to adapt.
And so the years rolled on some more and here I am
At 85, and wondering what I do now.
All those years that came and went somehow
Never satisfied my needs, leaving me to ask myself
For the fifty-seventh time this week:
Who knows where the time goes.
Who knows where…the time goes.
ljm

I long to write of shimmering translucence
Of gentle thoughts with gossamer wings
That float above breeze rippled fields of serenity.

But what comes from my pen is how to bake a cake
And what I see through ***** windows.

I long to write of Hollyhocks and Jasmine,
Of exquisite Orchids blooming in exotic places
That suddenly appear to delight the passing eye.

But what grows from my pen are Dandelions
And vast fields of very common Clover.

I long to plumb the depths of human spirit
Searching for the essence of that magic thing called soul
To set it free in glorious transcendence

But my pen spits out confusion not perception

And it maps a path that only goes in circles.

I long to create music from the written word
To build crescendos that fade into lullabies
And obliviate the need for language.

But what thunders from my pen is mostly noise
Without a beat and lacking any melody.

I long to write the words that cause the world to cry-
That opens them to vistas that were hidden
And shows them landscapes of a better place to be.

But my pen seems locked In every-dayness
And I can only write up what I long to do
And blur the words with wistful tears.
ljm

Why can’t you be who you were?
I can’t say I like who you are
Or who you are so fast becoming.

Why can’t you be like before
When everything you tried succeeded
And you always had the right answer?

Why can’t you go back to that person
With wisdom and courage and smarts
And be someone that I could love?
        ljm

Kindness is a luxury that all can afford.
So why is the world filled with so much evil?
Patience is an attribute not hard to acquire
So why’s everyone in a frantic hurry.
Forgiveness cures so very many ills
So why is revenge flavor of the month.
Happiness is an attainable state
So why is humanity so upset and angry.
God’s still in Heaven with hope to bestow
So why is humankind too stupid to know.
ljm

I'm just allowed to read 5 poems. I can't scroll down for  more.
I don't know what mistake I've made for Eliot to close the door.
I know I'm not the only one with no access to the index
Which I consulted constantly from forgetfulness and reflex.
Is there some way to make amends and put things back to right
Or are we all to drop our pens and fade into the night.

Will Eliot do something new and leave us on our own
Or are his plans a secret - totally to us unknown
Will Hello Poetry ever come back and be the way it's been
If we should lose our access it would be the gravest sin
I've offered Elliot a check instead of monthly nicks
But I've not had a word from him - up to his usual tricks.

I'll keep submitting what I write and see if it's displayed
And if it  never does appear, sadly I will be dismayed
If I am not the only one facing this conundrum
Let me have a word or two and tell me who it's from.
Then I won't feel I've crossed a line and there's no hope for me
And all together we will wait to see what we can see.

The ill-est of all winds has started blowing,
And my little pile of sand begins to disappear.
I swept it up so carefully, between
The rocks and all the hardest places,
I protected it from dogs and little children,
Guarded it against the rain and snow.

I never counted on the wind increasing.
Always just a zephyr, it brought butterflies
And the scent of Jasmine in the summer,
And cooled a sweaty brow while playing.
I didn’t notice as the wind speed grew,
A little at a time, until it was too late.

Now the sighing’s turned into a howl
That cannot be ignored or quelled.
It whips around the windbreaks I put up
And pushes on all objects in its way.
I race to cover up my sand pile
But I lack a blanket big enough.

I fling myself across to hold it down
But I don’t have sufficient hands or fingers,
And I see my precious, swirling grains
Begin to drift away into the cracks
And crevices of all those hardest places
Where I can never sweep them out again.

Picking up my tattered blanket at a lull
There is nothing left beneath but shiny rock.
The only sand, a few grains found
Embedded in the pattern of the weave.
I wrap myself up tight in it
And stumble out into the coming storm.
ljm

No book of rules and regulations
To warn the jar holds just one quart
So all the pushing of the liquid
Will not fit a gallon in
And I will have to mop the spill

Verses spelled on ***** sidewalks
Written in 3 shades of chalk
Embellished with fantastic flowers
Only end up walked across
And smudged from recognition
                        ljm

Twas the month before Christmas
And all through the town
the early bird shoppers
Could scarcely lay down.

The turkey was eaten
With ravenous passions
The quicker to race out
And grab the new fashions.

The bargains were lurking
Inside of each mall
Inviting the greedy
To dash away all.

To forget about family
Forget to give thanks
To goal is to get stuff
Without breaking banks.

The early morn line up
Now a thing of the past
With stores never closing
You’ve got to be fast.

A big screen TV set
For three hundred bucks-
The  last one is taken
And that really *****.

If some other shopper
Should get in your way
The only solution?
That ole pepper spray!

You push and get pummeled-
You put it on plastic
You’ve landed a bargain
And that is fantastic

The Muzak is playing
The same Christmas songs
We know them all backwards
We’ve heard them so long.

You wend your way homeward
So proud of your action
To cancel Thanksgiving
And earn satisfaction.

The holly was strung up
Before Trick or treat
If you wait til Thanksgiving
You’re gonna get beat

By all of the merchants,
A few neighbors too.
Can’t beat ‘em? Then join ‘em-
What else can you do?

You wait for December,
The goods are shopworn
With scratches and paint chips,
And boxes all torn.

The only solution
Is one to remember:
Avoid all the trauma
And shop in September.

For a month before Christmas
The whole world goes mad
We use up the season
And that makes me sad.

I long for the mem’ry
Of Christmases past
When family mattered
And shopping came last,

Behind all the sharing
Of love and good times
Without all the hassle
Portrayed in these rhymes.

Exhaustion has claimed us
We need to lie down
It takes all your courage
Surviving downtown.

So you wear your kerchief
And I’ll wear my cap
And we’ll try to grab us
A short winter nap.

And we’ll say to ourselves
As we turn out the light
Merry Christmas to all
And to all a good night.
ljm

Twas the month before Christmas
And all through the town
The early bird shoppers
Could scarcely sit down.

The turkey was eaten
With ravenous passions
The quicker to race out
And grab the new fashions.

The bargains were lurking
Inside every mall
Inviting the greedy
To dash away all.

To forget about family
Forget to give thanks
To goal is to get stuff
Without breaking banks.

The early morn line up
Now a thing of the past
With stores never closing
You’ve got to be fast.

A big screen TV set
For three hundred bucks-
The  last one is taken
And that really *****.

If some other shopper
Should get in your way
The only solution?
That ole pepper spray!

You push and get pummeled-
You put it on plastic
You’ve landed a bargain
And that is fantastic

The Muzak is playing
The same Christmas songs
We know them all backwards
We’ve heard them so long.

You wend your way homeward
So proud of your action
To cancel Thanksgiving
And earn satisfaction.

The holly was strung up
Before Trick or treat
If you wait til Thanksgiving
You’re gonna get beat

By all of the merchants,
A few neighbors too.
Can’t beat ‘em? Then join ‘em-
What else can you do?

You wait for December,
The goods are shopworn
With scratches and paint chips,
And boxes all torn.

The only solution
Is one to remember:
Avoid all the trauma
And shop in September.

For a month before Christmas
The whole world goes mad
We use up the season
And that makes me sad.

I long for the mem’ry
Of Christmases past
When family mattered
And shopping came last,

Behind all the sharing
Of love and good times
Without all the hassle
Portrayed in these rhymes.

Exhaustion has claimed us
We need to lie down
It takes all your courage
Surviving downtown.

So you wear your kerchief
And I’ll wear my cap
And we’ll try to grab us
A short winter nap.

And we’ll say to ourselves
As we turn out the light
Merry Christmas to all
And to all a good night.
    ljm

Curled up on a couch too short for me
I waken from a dream of Woodland.
Wide avenue beneath its canopy of trees
That hold their leaves much longer in the Autumn
And can’t wait to burst them early in the Spring.

Houses, each one not like any other,
Personalities developed over years of love,
Standing firm when the ground below was not,
And tried to shake them into rubble.

Jigsaw puzzle of hearts and faces,
All with fingers reaching out
To interlock and form a chain
Of caring and of kindness.

Hands that work in unison to
Tear down walls of loneliness and fear
That lurk behind too many smiling eyes.

Only one block long in all the growing city,
It starts and ends without a stop sign
Or a crosswalk or a signal light.

Close to everything that’s needed
But miles from the kind of thing that’s not.
Kaleidoscope of different kinds of people
Captured in one perfect scene of living.

Glowing in my early morning memory,
Bringing tears that should be done by now.
Longing for what was, and not what needs to be,
I dampen the too short sofa with my tears
And force myself to rise and face the day.
ljm

Another harangue from the White House:
“Only what I say is true
What’s written up in the papers
Was published by those skewing blue”

You can’t believe a word they say-
These guys with intelligent brains
Who insist on only spouting facts
Instead of the truth of my claims”

“So listen to only what I say to you -
Don’t bother to read the fake news
I am the Lord of the Universe
So you must agree with my views”
ljm

My name is Clive the Centurian
I deliver my orders stentorian
I may stamp my feet
But it’s silence I greet
So I’m off to the sanitorium
                            ljm

How can you be so ridiculous
As to tell me I’m pediculous.
You must admit it’s not real nice
To tell a friend he’s full of lice
                             ljm

Words are floating in the air like
Dragonflies in summer.
They reflect on placid waters
Only ruffled by the silver fins of tiny fish.
They dangle ripe and tantalizing
From the brambles growing by the train tracks.
They soar and cartwheel in the azure sky.

Words are lurking in the shadowed places
In the forests of emotion, and the dells
Where sunshine is a seldom visitor.
They tumble like a child’s balloon
Down waterfalls of jubilation.
They pounce like kittens from the top of cabinets.
They curl up in a mother’s lap.

Words can be illusive as a chimera
So difficult to capture in a pen,
And once ensconced, impossible to lure back out.
Words are currency to purchase immortality -
To bargain with the vicissitudes of life
And bandage wounds of disappointment.
They build a wall and often hide behind it.

Words are letters rearranged a million times.
The songs of living, loving, laughing life.
They can be the voice of brilliant minds,
The moans of breaking hearts and souls,
The sigh that sounds the same in every tongue,
The cry to God when all else fails,
The one true tool that separates us from the Apes.
ljm

I see masses of little fluffy clouds
Spilled like a bag of giant popcorn
Across the azure morning sky,
The rest of the heavens are a cloudless blue,
Tinted pink by the rising sun.
This delight is for me alone,
Gazing East from my front porch.
ljm

Echos from the distant past
Hide out in dusty stations
Waiting for the Midnight train to Georgia.

Feet ******* with burning cramps
Stumble through the buttercups
That always used to turn chins yellow.

But my-oh-my there’s cherry pie
Baking in the oven
That used to cook on Douglas Street.

Good grief never did exist,
I’m sorry Charlie Brown-
You need to find a new phrase.

The Ferris wheel goes up and down
Without a sound except for all
The children screaming as they fall.

Why did my Daddy **** his hand off of my leg
When Mom walked past the bedroom door.
Why can’t I manage to forget

That I have nothing to remember.
            ljm

I’m trying so hard to maintain the flame
But my candle continues to flicker.
I’ve shielded it from the heaviest winds
But the breezes of sameness assail it.
I can’t see my way if it goes out completely
With darkness now poised to swoop in.
ljm

Away for a week -
But my worst fear:
When I come back
Will you still be here?
                      ljm

The face they see when
I walk past and smile
Is not the face I see
When I gaze into my bathroom mirror
And manage to fantasize away
The wear of those long decades.
The face I see in
That soft-lit mirror,
Practicing a youthful grin,
Is not the face I’m forced to view
In photos that refuse to lie,
And offer me a reality
That breaks my heart to look at.
How can such a  buoyant spirit
Come packaged in such a shopworn case.
ljm

The word I can’t find is gagging my pen
Gates slam shut when I knock on the door
The thunder clouds rumble and crash while
The sea nears it’s ebb and the seagulls all land
To scratch in the sand for what I have lost
Intellectual handcuffs chafe but hold firmly
To the cast-iron pipes of yesterday’s genius.
My pencil has a broken lead; the poison seeps
Into the veins that hold my life together.
Fist pounding breaks the thinner ice along the edge
But the navigation channel remains frozen
And thoughts ice skate away to music I can’t hear.
Like a hungry bird chick in a broken nest
Chirping with an open mouth for sustenance
From Mama lying dead below among the leaves.
I know the meal will not appear.
                           ljm

Gnarled words from crippled fingers
Inch their way across a crumpled page
Never sketching anything that’s real.

The burden of the thinning air
Makes casting sighs more difficult
And the wounded heart beats faster.

Yearning turns the morning purple
And the ache consumes the sunrise
While the symphony packs up and goes.

Letters from the alphabet form up
In arcane ways that somehow never
Say the thing that crowds all else out of the room.

Eyes that drip with longing blur
And try to focus on what’s left behind
When that tiny drop of blood is gone.
         ljm

You, you, you
Wanna be in love with you
Gonna fall in love with you
If it’s the only thing I do.

You, you, you
Need to wear my wedding ring
If you’d do that special thing
I would feel just like a king

You, you, you
I’m in love with you, you, you
Tell me that you love me too
And make all my dreams come true
                  ljm