Things I'll Never Be

So many things I'll never be,
elegant, tall and thin,
with an Englishman's confidence.
Blonde and beautiful, transformational, radiating,
possessing a Marilyn Monroe spell magical,
nope, not me.

Some things I was, I'll never be again.
Never be a sad-eyed teenager again, and for this,
in my morning prayers, I utter a blessing,
(tho my hormones have yet to be informed!)

Soul of brevity, poetically,
I'll never be, this insightful critique,
("Your poems are too long")
I've received in multiplicity, from sources internationally,
perhaps, lucky me, you've read this far?

Surely still a chance that an angel will touch my lips,
my internal parts sign a final treaty, inside an armistice,
night sweats sighs a thing fully forgot,
poetry writing can now be dispatched,
maybe that will be my Act III,
if I can stay awake for it.

Switches in my brain are shutting down this elegy,
knowing that a dozen stanzas will die stillborn,
so herein and here now, the door closes,
a parting shot escapes over the door sill.

A joy thin threads within, pumped thru my ventricles,
brook springs from sources non-DNA, holy external,
oft hid, well disguised under actor's white face makeup,
this peculiar joy, as long as it embraces me and I, it,

I'll never be unhappy any more.

Gatsby was in love;
completely infatuated
with another being

The way he looked at her
with his anxious eyes
exhibited a love that couldn't be greater
And
the words he spoke
emitted such fondness
for her rosy lips against his
as he whispered sweet stories
that he irresistibly imagined
of their future together

he fell so in love--
he fell so tragically and desperately
in l o v e--
he lost himself completely
and became absent
in his own consciousness
trusting false hopes,
refusing to let go of what would
never be his
and if this insanity is what they call
true love--
if this is what one experiences
when such passion takes over--
then I, too
have gone Gatsby for you.

And when my love floats away,
Be the string to reel me in,
These moments are hot air anyway,
Human nature, wanting something, unseen.

My mother washed potatoes
one by one while my father
went carousing with his
favorite gun; I dragged sticks
through dusty gravel while
I watched it all unravel,
wondering what to make of
such an ugly thing as love.