The love of my life has passed. I am devastated and ripped. My life seems ended.

To my baby, if only I had one more day.

Even just an hour , I could go on.

DiAnne, my soul mate, i need you more than any breath or water.

I shall remember you and keep you close in my heart as I always did.

We are poor creatures
slimy organs imprisoned in flesh.
The sun burns us, water drowns us
our lives are rough and short,
we’re little more than talking dust.

We all howl with angry doubts.

Our art may dry and chip
our science could let us down,
our poets stammer and grow quiet.

Humanity has always been imperfect,
but some of us are trying. We see the stars,
we know passion, we sing and dance
and are indomitable - join us-
because the best is yet to come

How has the inevitable
Changes in the atmosphere
Affected you, my dear?
Did you watch in frozen fear
As the loud mortars crashed so near
Or think insanity has won the day,  give up the fight and fade away?
Or has the barometer of your opinion
became a beacon for touching time
Like sages of another rhyme when,
Known became a wing of air,
A tree limb on a barren oak,
A slowly cascading mountain peak, the haze of foggy bitter tears?
There once came by the now dry creek
A beauty lass with a smiling cheek
A breath of fresh a curl of new a hope to all who viewed her innocence
rare for years we thought her there.
But that must have been a smile thought just a scent of remembrance there one called her name in somnolence, and it echoes still,
her  name was whispered meaningful,
A heart, a tear,
A sentiment

Destiny and eternity are
chiseled in seconds.
Flecks of snow become
mountains.
Drops of rain make
oceans.
Thoughts tumble into
decisions, and actions,
overtime, leave a
legacy.

You’ll not see their like come race season,
Having left the premises to be replaced
By the preening breast-augmented and face-lifted set,
Shaking their heads and clucking sadly if one inquires
If they might have something
A touch smaller than a Franklin in their wallets,
Their smooth patter, replete with references
To Paris junkets and Milan catwalks
Occasionally interrupted by one of their more prosaic counterparts
(Hard-core players following the nags up from Belmont)
Stopping in to partake in one vice they’d sworn off earlier
While loudly disclaiming the other which had ruined
An otherwise perfectly lovely afternoon
(They’ll down their draughts in short order,
Most likely headed for the harness track
To drop a twenty on some longshot
Which bears the name of a long-departed grandmother.)
This time of year, though, they are ubiquitous
As the black and salted slush,
Sad souls slouching in after a bracing walk from Skidmore campus
Or some down-at-the-heels apartment on Alger Street,
Forlornly popping into some quiet booth
With the familiar long-distance stare seen in those
Beginning to grasp the truth that one
Is an object of prey in a very small pond indeed
(Likely a semester, no more than two certainly,
From having their undergraduate epaulets
Torn unceremoniously from their shoulders)
Being as quiet and unobtrusive as church mice
Until a half-dozen or so Coors Lites
Leads them to pontificate on the injustice of the universe
And if they have not decided to stagger home
Or degenerated into desolate tears of self-pity,
They are wont to dispute the existence of the Almighty,
Saying with a conviction which would be impressive
If expressed by Beelzebub himself
That he does not exist, that he cannot exist,
Though the body of proof cited in support of the proposition
Tends to be fragmented and rife with circular reasoning
(We know that they’re most likely drinking with false ID,
But they are invariably pedestrians—let them have their moment,
Only threats to themselves, after all.)
As for myself, I’m of the opinion that faith in the Hereafter
Is that rarest of bets, an absolute bet-the-chalk- dead- cert
Where you walk to the betting window clutching house money.

I tried to kiss your mind, in the way of inimical words I’d heard:
how a boy should begin.
With everything I thought you’d be, bubbling in convoluted thought, caught in the fresh oxygenated current
It’s real love and it shouldn’t go wrong.
I floundered, and you weren’t to
swim down from your opaline blue altitude.
Since you existed as a perfect reflection of your face, I
imagined the rest of you lost in the prism’s traces; let your mind’s eye
photo-reply a dappled understanding,
whilst we stretch out to grey misty conjecture above -
ever luminous rising depths,
to a love touched on
It’s real and it shouldn’t go wrong;
but if only for jewel chippings, I liked to kiss your mind;
to feel your arms round my heart one more time

© Copyright David Bosworth June 2023