Tag Archives: acceptance

Adrift

Author’s note: sometimes I find it interesting to see how a poem evolves. So, here’s one that started as a somewhat freestyle poem, that, after time passed, I decided to turn into a sauna sonnet.

Freestyle

Empty hole
In core of his soul.
He forgot his goals.
Time galore, but still needs more.
Missing half amplifies 
Ambition lost;
Life simplifies
But at what cost?
Time now consumed by adult toddler
Who, when he was a toddler, was his coddler.
And feverishly, manically recalling
Memories of the missing, haunting and enthralling.
The missing becomes his poem,
In danger of being lost forever,
The bliss and glad life
No longer its own witness.

Sauna Sonnet

Introspection: he finds an empty hole
Down deep in the core of his troubled soul;
Goals forgot when he set out to explore.
He had time galore, but still he needs more.
It seems the missing piece now amplifies
Several signals of his ambition lost;
Bittersweet: he finds his life simplifies,
His schedule now streamlined, but at what cost?
Time now consumed by an adult toddler,
Who was, when he was a toddler, coddler.
And feverish, manically recalling
Memories of the missing—enthralling,
Haunting—the missing becomes his poem,
Bliss and glad life, no longer witness own.

Copyright ©️ 2025 H.K. Longmore

The Seven Breaths and a Resolution

A remark made in one place in space-time
Recombines with remark from distant past
And then current situation. Alas!
'Twas enough to make heart a flounder-mime.
Remark was innocent enough, he thought;
No malice, deception, or ill-intent
Could be detected at space-time present.
But the combination made blood run hot.
Social moors dictate none involved should know,
Despite communication's rules; sealed lips
Until through therapist's door he can slip.
Emerges with Seven Breaths Up in tow.
So he tries the seven breaths exercise,
And answers appear to his great surprise.

Copyright ©️ 2024 H.K. Longmore

Vacant Echoes

Adductors: his vacant stare sees right past
But sees just short of bench where sits some lass
As she works her core, so through to her core
His eyes pierce as some demigod of lore.
Intrigued, she wonders what his eyes might see, 
But his eyes see nothing to bring him vim,
Just another human at the same gym.
Drenched in pensive fluid: wooden bench's salt sea;
Patiently replaying past episodes,
His focus lost in the past—Heaven's odes—
Sees another young woman in his mind:
Dark hair, middle part, bun or tail behind.
Unspoken echoes cloud the mind, her face
Unseen in vacant echoes of the night.

Author’s note: this takes some bits and pieces from an unpublished poem that evolved over the course of about a year. One version of that poem took a dark turn after six or seven stanzas. One version was too much of a “when you know what you don’t know” situation. The most recent version of that poem doesn’t end as hopefully as I would like, though I think it does capture the sentiment of “things are falling apart, no matter what I try to do to hold them together,” or, “this is not how I pictured things would be a year ago” with an unstated “can we go back a year and get a do-over?” I generally liked that poem, but it was maybe too personal, and in some minds, lacking context, could be seriously misunderstood. So, I’ve opted to canabalize that one in favor of other art.

My first attempt at this poem, on the other hand, was the inspiration for Trashed.

Copyright © 2024 H.K. Longmore

Hanging On Too Long

Sentimental doesn't do it justice,
It lacks the depth of hope unrelenting.
Delusional doesn't account, just this
Doubt for which I'm constantly repenting.
Hope springs eternal, but muddied waters
Are wont to flow from a well nigh to dry.
The flame, of hope, of love, burns far hotter
Though it be quenched by eyes too dry to cry.
Yet in holding on too long, I may lose:
I may not see missed opportunity;
May not catch meaning of your fleeting glance;
Until it's too late, and time seals my fate—
But I'll hope and pray that you may perchance
On rethought, let Cupid's arrow find mate.

Copyright ©️ 2024 H.K. Longmore

Consignment

He takes the skeleton key from his pocket,
Inserts it into the ribcage,
Rotates the door on its hinges;
Pulls out a treasure.

A beautiful flower
Or a diamond,
Sometimes in the rough,
But always his treasure.

At her request,
He hands it to her:
Leaves of carbon-pulp
Stitched together;

Or bits and bytes,
Traveling o’er wire and glass,
Made visible
By electroluminescence.

She turns to examine it,
But not yet;
There’s a journey ahead
Before she can assay.

He can but watch
As she turns to walk away,
Holding in her hands
His softly beating heart.

© 2021 H.K. Longmore