LOVE POEM #117 – Our Last Supper

Our Last Supper

 

She left from the dinner table,

spilling bills for her half of the check

onto the black leather folio

as though to apologize

for her abrupt renegation.

 

Is this how quiet Virgil felt

when he watched Dante cross the Lethe,

his words written out of existence

like Dido, when Aeneas saw her

walking back to kindly Sychaeus?

 

Did he wait behind, out of sight,

drinking a last draught of ruby wine

before slipping his tender next to hers

and walking briskly out the side door,

not even bothering to grab his coat?

——

 

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LOVE POEM #116 – Serenades

Serenades

 

The echoes down the corridor

called out to my wandering eyes

as though my cold bench was a ship

clasped by a siren’s serenade.

 

Is this how lonely Dido felt

when she heard the crunch of dry leaves

beneath the pious Aeneas

before he parted the forest?

 

For when he rounded the corner,

that song of Cupid ignited,

turning my metal caravan

into a bed of burning coals.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #115 – A Lighter

Lighter

 

As sparks from a lighter will fly

when fingers scrape against the flint

then ignite, like the morning light

when the fiery steeds escaped,

 

so do you stoke those spoken flames;

your thumb held tight to my button

‘til your cigarette starts to smoke

and in the ash you taste release.

——

 

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MUSIC SERIES – Under the Wheel

This poem was inspired by Time by Pink Floyd! Let me know if there are any songs you’d like me to write about.

 

Under the Wheel

 

When my skin began to shrivel

I knew Fortune’s spinning wheel

had snared me in its crooked spokes

and sentenced me to my last years.

 

The somber day came when I slipped;

the strength I’d used to climb her rungs

was at last sapped from my muscles

and she rolled o’er my shrunken form.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #100 – Greed

WOW! 100 love poems! Someone bring out the party blowers! Thanks for all your support everyone. Lets wrap up this mini series I’ve been doing for the 7 Sins with my favorite (least favorite?) sin: Greed.

 

Greed

 

An eager glint in those green eyes

glows like the Elysian Fields,

yet as they gleam in the eve’s light

my own glimmer evaporates.

 

Check out all the other sins here: Sloth, Lust, Envy, Wrath, Gluttony, Pride.

Oh, and hopefully it goes without saying, but all of these poems are about the bad parts of love and romance, which is both beautiful and terrible. They represent a kind of abuse, or abuses, and while I’ve somewhat romanticized them, or poeticized them, that is for emphasis, and not because they are good or positive.

——

 

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If Atlas Could Run

If Atlas Could Run

 

I wonder if Atlas could run

with all that weight on his shoulders.

 

There must have been a time

before his knees were locked in combat

with the eternal burden of gravity

that he could run about, carefree.

 

I have known such times

where the sun shines on blue skies

and Gaea’s warmth embraced my soles.

Days half-remembered from window panes

 

drinking coffee under the constellations

before the myth became reality.

——

 

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The Golden Apple

The Golden Apple

 

It’s a wonder Paris could choose

who would get the golden apple

when I can barely part with one

that has red and yellow spots.

 

Yet he thrust it into the palms

of the porcelain god Venus

without a pause to consider

the empty pit in his stomach.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #86 – Sleeping / Waking

The peacefulness of a Buddhist

draws its way across your brow

beneath the wisps of blonde hair

that hide the blank expression on your face.

 

Then, with the flutter of your eyelids,

the materialism of your features fly back

like the flare of spring when Persephone

crossed the fiery steps of Hades back to Earth.

——

 

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AFTER THE FALL

He was old. So old, the new wrinkles in his face seemed to have seen more deaths than most people alive. His feeble body sprouted legs from beneath his torso, though they had shriveled from lack of use that they looked as though they more like twigs, ready to snap at any moment. His skin had gone from leathery to baked and hard. Blood spots appeared on his fingers as he moved them around. Yet still, he had to keep them moving. The doctor had said it was one thing to lose the legs, but losing the arms would be too much.

His face was shrunk as well, so much that he looked like a ghost. The one unchanged feature in him was his mind. His body had failed to weather the storm of time, but the mountain in his head was unmoved. The people of the village had dedicated a room in his honor, which was kept constant with fire so that he never felt the chill of winter. All they had asked in return were his stories.

Stories he had plenty. They enjoyed the stories from the time before, when people lived in the long abandoned buildings out beyond the hillside, but he preferred the one that followed. The calamity had destroyed many lives, but those that rose from the ashes were reliant on others. It was the great time, in his mind, of human caring. With no family to speak of, he was grateful he lived in such a time, where he would not have to fear being thrown out in the cold until he was ready to die.

That day was soon coming though, he knew. In their hearts, he thought all people knew, unless they were taken before their time by something unexpected, like a runaway bus. That had been a story the children had loved, though the parents had scolded them for laughing. But what did he care if they laughed? So long as they learned and lived, there was little worry if they laughed.

The days for laughter were long passed him. Now, some god had sentenced him to suffering. He felt like Tithonus, yet his Eos had died many, many years ago. They all had. At times, he pondered leaving the village. The cold would be good for him—he had known many good souls take their own lives in the cold. His best friend had done it, and it was said he rode great wild beasts in the dreams he lived, in those last moments.

Perhaps that day could be today. In the silence, after everyone left, he put his hands on the armrests and tried to lift himself. His arms shook, his skin cracked, and he heaved heavy breaths of air, but he could hardly rise an inch. He knew, deep down, even if he had risen, his legs would have fallen after a moment, and he would have had to crawl with half the bones in his body broken.

It was a vain fantasy, to wish to leave these good people alone, but one he greedily played in his mind. Over and over it spun, like the wheels of fire the men danced with outside. He could hear them now, chanting for the sun to come; for the cold not to claim too many of their babes. The mothers joined in to, and he listened to their voices. Strong. Loving. He listened until he felt the calm of sleep finally take him.

——

 

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WONDER WOMAN

Diana wasn’t like her comic book counter part.

She didn’t feel any inner struggle over her Superman.

She struggled with her taxes, getting tenure,

and which of her sister’s twins had twisted the cat’s tail.

 

But she was a Wonder Woman nonetheless;

the kind of woman who would wake up at five

and take the bus to the homeless shelter

just so the sorrowful could have a decent meal.

 

Maybe she pictured herself from time to time

soaring over the skyline as the sun began to shine,

dressed in a one-piece, red and blue suit

and a tiara that twinkled in the sunlight,

 

but I saw her more as the brutal hunter,

ready to hamstring the next Actaeon

that paraded his way into the wrong bathhouse;

protecting her nymphs from another abuser.

——

 

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