I also am a musician. Check out my post about my first single on my music blog.
Posted in Uncategorized
I need a rhyme
But not just to pass the time.
I need word play
To say I wrote today.
Installed a new app on my smartphone;
I have many skills I need to hone,
And talents too long
Under bushel banished.
The app tracks goals.
Completed all but one today.
Practiced banjo,
Trumpet,
Marching baritone,
Euphonium;
Road several miles
On a road bike;
Lifted weights
When I couldn’t repair the flat.
And all I lacked was this,
And had but a quarter hour
Or the day would get a red x.
Posted in Uncategorized
“Take five of these three times a day”
The instructions say.
I try to comply,
But some days boundaries are merely implied.
The doctor wanted to give me
A powder for my wound,
But he, his supplier, and the grocery—
Out of stock, all three.
Lacking the powder, made from Chinese herbs,
I use what I have: Swedish Bitters,
Good for healing wounds of flesh;
I use a dropper to keep it fresh.
But my patience is tried,
So many gorgeous fall days passing me by:
Infection reduced, wound improving but still open.
I want control, if but a token.
I like to grow my own herbs,
Or buy them whole and grind myself,
But these herbs I’m taking are unfamiliar,
And I would need a guide to find them.
I picture myself wandering the Chinese countryside
With someone who has been there;
A basket over each shoulder
To collect what we should find.
We look for Cha Chi Huang,
We seek some Xian Feng Cao.
Eyes peeled for Liu Zhi Huang,
And don’t forget the Feng Wei Cao.
Returning with herbaceous treasures,
Some we plant, some we dry,
Make a tisane with standard measures;
I’m on the mend, and my heart could fly!
But now, against my joints’ complaints,
I must return to sleeping on the couch:
The friendliest positions
To protect my wound are on its cushions.
© 2017 H.K. Longmore
Posted in Uncategorized
A glance out the window
Revealed a fender bender
And I, I felt mirth?
Again, from inside,
Viewing the street below,
Another’s pain
Curled my lip toward my eye?
Why? What hag has hexed me,
What sorcerer stole my concern,
And left schadenfreude
In its place?
Were sights that brought me joy
Absent too long;
My eyes need to find delight
Some other way?
Numbness crushing my compassion,
Squeezing out my sympathy?
A sight that a month of Sundays past
Brought me to tears,
Now brings but numb tingling
To my limbs, my reins, my heart.
So I take up my schadenfreude,
Since I can’t convince myself
Of my fraud, that I’m happy for you
(Though your happiness I desire over mine).
Copyright © 2017 H.K. Longmore
The lyric heard while working in the yard
Echoes around inside my brain:
I don't care now For what might have been; The heart of darkness Closes in on me.
I sang the refrain out the second time
The playlist served up the song,
But in my heart I knew,
I knew it was a lie.
This lie, oft repeated,
Would advance from lie
To realm of the believed.
So it is with hope,
Hope for what may yet be,
On this playlist the song
No longer has a home.
She glances in her mirror,
She’s taken with what she sees.
At once she feels the need to clean—
A cloth or tissue at hand,
Red light gives time
For her to clean the dash,
Clean the controls,
She tosses her hair,
Checks the side mirror
Lest he is not watching;
And seeing he sees,
Resumes.
She tosses her hair,
Then rinse and repeat,
With a few mirror checks
Thrown in for good measure.
Light turns green,
She sees he sees,
Tosses her hair,
Advances.
Light turns yellow,
She goes through;
Her eyes bid him follow
Despite the red.
Follow he would,
But she is not you.
She looks to Sir Moon,
Wondering what he’s feeling
She pours out her heart.
Full Spring Moon listens,
Reflected in the river
Beside which he plays.
If He had a mouth,
Sir Moon would surely reply,
Would tell what He knows.
Of what would He tell?
He would sing what the bridge hears,
What the river sees.
The river sees brass,
Its appearance like silver,
Twelve feet, conical.
The bridge hears a song,
Improvised and repeated,
A song from his heart.
Sir Moon would replay
What the concrete barrier
Echoes to the reeds;
What the ducks and geese
Mistake for a lullaby
As they seek out sleep.
But Sir Moon stays mute,
His heart moved by maudlin song
Played to still her heart.
© 2017 H.K..Longmore
Enters, man on call,
A symphony concert hall.
Opens laptop to appall.
Keeps phone on silent,
But screen? It remains alight,
To receive alerts.
Unshaven, unkempt,
They would fain have thrown him out.
Then comes the call: server’s down.
Unshaven, on call,
Now I stand with phone in hand—
Alone, let snow fall.
©2017 H.K. Longmore
Posted in poetry
Oh Tragedy, that binds the tongues
Of those who love best
But can speak nothing;
Nothing more
Than the loquacious praise
Of those who love less.
Remove thy maudlin mask
From thy cheekbones high,
Wash the paint from thy skin—
Reveal thyself!
Let poor Cordelia see
At whose hand she suffers.
Let poor Cordelia see
By whose hand the beloved
Becomes the blind;
And please,
Deliver a message
From me?
Let my beloved know my love,
If from she or I thou dost take sight;
If from sight we are deprived.
©2016 H.K. Longmore
Posted in poetry
Tagged bliss and glad life, cathartic, communication, introspection, love, poem
Eyes embrace,
Instruments in place;
The time has come
To make strings hum,
And brass bells
Resound
Throughout the space.
In sync, on beat
Or syncopated;
They act as one.
But now no clear path,
Out of sight,
A glimpse of bow or hand,
But no eyes to lock—
Notes fall off the page,
Rests refuse their wage;
Extras join the fray,
Heard when none should play.
©2016 H.K. Longmore
If it doesn’t work out,
If I don’t get to have her
In my life,
I will save myself from despair;
I will go to the grape vine,
Find some grapes out of reach.
I’ll tell myself lies to ease my pain:
“It would have never worked out.
She’s too young for me.”
If she is taken from me by another,
Or if she is taken from me by fate,
I’ll cherish what time we had;
I’ll make sweeter still, and keep near,
My fond memories of hands and heart;
The low-hanging fruit: I’ll recall the butterflies.
Harvesting Grapes, Finding Spider Egg Sacs
If she is taken from me by fate,
Or if she is taken from me by another,
I’ll soothe my heart trying to harvest sour grapes.
©2016 H.K. Longmore
Posted in poetry
Tagged bliss and glad life, cathartic, coping, love, poem, relationships, resilience
How do you speak what you’ve been forbidden to speak?
When you dearly want to let the secret out,
In hopes of bringing relief to aching hearts,
Or understanding to confused minds?
Were it a mere mortal that forbade,
I would speak it anyway.
But when the forbidden is from above,
I can only ask, and hold my tongue.
©2016 H.K. Longmore
Posted in poetry
 | Henry Longmore on In Passing |
 | mrlumeh on In Passing |
| Henry Longmore on Nothing to Say |
 | William on Nothing to Say |
| A Conversation among… on The Task Master |
