Tag Archives: bliss and glad life

Interesting

I love the word interesting.
One can use it to describe:
Things that make my heart sing,
A lovely curious thing,
Something appealing,
Topics fit for a king,
A morsel of information for further pursuing;
Things bland,
Stories boorish,
Strange or psychotic behavior.

I hate the word interesting:
Once used to mean my words were a morsel,
It now means something akin to blasé.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

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Protected: A Most Auspicious Start

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April Fool?

Author’s note: this was written 01 April 2015. I mention this only so the phrase “this day” is more easily understood.

A memory,
Somewhat faded now;
It happened on this day
Some years ago.

An aspirate tied to vibrating vocal chords;
Next, the tip of her tongue
On her superior alveolar ridge soared,
Air passing through her nose from her lungs.

This was not the end,
Only the middle.
I give you no riddle:
To utter a glide her tongue did bend.

No palatal approximant in her head,
She expressed instead
An anglicized Greek upsilon,
A fine sound to end on.

And thus his name
Passed o’er her lips;
Each utterance that o’er them slipped
Increased her power to tame.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

The Nearly Departed

An elegiac ode

The time has nearly come,
Her next phase now looms on the horizon.
We can feel her excitement: with it the air hums.
She counts the days aloud; one chokes on a tisane.

“What will you do when I’m gone?” she inquires.
Comes her friend’s reply, “I’ll be sad.”
“The person who replaces me will be so rad,
You’ll forget me in a month.” Aye, if that were desired.

Nay, not even then:
Life of the party, the party planner;
Infectious energy, flirtatious manner;
Always in memory, e’en if not in ken.

Another swallows hard, hearing;
Her mannerisms still endearing,
Even as she is heading out the door,
Perhaps to be seen nevermore.

He’ll likely have to leave soon thereafter:
Ghosts of conversation, lingering laughter,
Conjured up at every corner, echo ’round his head;
For his body and brain become lead.

His absence will start with a change in lunchtime venue:
In the break room he’ll become persona perdu.
Lunch hour will be for music instead of food,
A means to dampen his brooding mood.

And yet that won’t be enough
To fill the void, to try to forget.
He’ll still have to hang tough:
No paillette can steal the vignettes of this brunette.

Some might say she would have stayed,
That he could have made it so;
But to her desk he no longer strayed.
His head says he chose wisely;
The pain in his heart betrays a “No!”

In a month’s time you think he’d forget?
Au contraire, mon chéri;
Forgive the expression and be not wary:
In this matter I think you’re all wet.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Backup Plan

She needed a backup plan
In case what she really wanted
Started to look a little wan.

He wouldn’t change his current plans;
As long as she was working on her backup man,
He would have to resist, ignore as she did fawn.

And so she needed a backup plan.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

While the Sun Still Shone

While the sun in this hemisphere still shone
He liked to be where her rays could warm his bones.
If the day was cloudy, he’d still hang around,
With hope that a break in the clouds might be found.

But when the sun left this hemisphere, bringing on the night,
All hope of receiving radiated warmth faded with the light.
But the night time is music time in his world,
So he went in search of a score to unfurl.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

In Passing

A brightly-colored bird,
Top half white,
Bottom orange bright,
Flits to and fro in the third.

In the third hour since noon,
A gorgeous bird sings a tune,
Seeking attention from a potential mate;
With desire she’ll sate.

She wins his eye
As he splits his focus
With some hocus-pocus;
Or at least, tries.

She returns to her perch
Not made of birch;
Waiting patiently,
Poised gracefully.

But when he draws near,
He is focused
On another locus,
No time to play, he fears.

He passes by,
And in passing,
He hears her cry
A sound everlasting:

An interjection surpassing mild,
An objection with Eternal Magistrate filed,
Feeling all her charms could not beguile.
Upon hearing, his heart turns about, wild,

But his head controls his feet.
While his blood increases in heat,
His heart tries a compromise to meet;
His head would not be beat.

This was in hour four;
The lovely orange-bottomed bird was seen no more.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

I’m Sorry That Happened

Confusion.
Confusion and hurt reigned
As his words echoed back;
Altered in content,
In timbre, changed.

“No, he just said,
‘I’m sorry that happened to you'”
A higher pitched voice
Had exclaimed.

The gist was the same, the gestures were not.
The deltas puzzled him;
He thought
He was being mocked.

Puzzling, sorrowing;
Sorrowing, puzzling,
He made his way
To his destination.

Along the way a realization hit:
The differences came
Not from mocking tongue,
Nor from unfriendly desires;

A reflection
Of the differences in
Hopes and expectations
Of the direction
Of the conversation.

Soon only the echo remained,
And he wished his could have been the same.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Broken

“Have I finally broken you?”
She playfully asks
As they stop in the hallway.
“No, no,” comes his reply;

Long on the vowels,
upward inflection—
As his eyes smile
And his lips break
Into a knowing grin.

He thinks to himself,
“Broken me, yes,
But not the way you wanted,
Not the way you planned.”

© 2015 H.K. Longmore

Unanswered Question

She asks a question of him, but of the group.
He cannot answer: mouth full of bread or soup.
Her query is met with silence,
Until another breaks it without violence.

Her left foot is propelled
By unmet expectation.
Her right spurred on
By hopes dashed, hopes felled;

She leaves the room gracefully,
Then passes by, looking in mournfully.
Another pass with greater sadness,
And finally, donned a coat for pass number three.

He wonders why the passes,
Why the sadness on her face;
Beautiful among all the pretty lasses,
What’s gone wrong in this case?

He finishes his meal, pondering.
His mind, wandering,
Comes to a clearing
Where he finds some meaning.

With haste he departs,
In search of this sweet dame.
He realizes in his heart
The coat means he is too late.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Biological Upgrade

I got an eye upgrade today:
A new model
With anti-tear capabilities.

It was fast to install,
Only took ten seconds.
I almost can’t tell the difference.

Almost.

The firmware is version 1.0.
You know how the first version goes.
There’s always some rough spots.

No, no spots on my eyes.
But the anti-tear capabilities
Haven’t been perfected yet:

If I want to let them,
The tears will still fall.
There’s no override;

I can’t set it to “No Tears,”
And have the setting stick,
Ignoring what e’er may come next.

Also, the anti-tear module
Requires a steady input
Of hard rock to function properly.

But so far
My ducts are dry.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Nothing to Say

Author’s note: Carly Simon asks in the song Angel from Montgomery (written by John Prine): “How the hell can a person go to work in the morning, come home in the evening, and have nothing to say?” The situation described by those lines is rather sad. But it occurs to me that there are many reasons why one might have “nothing to say.” This poem is an exploration of some of those reasons.

When the cubicle is empty,
There’s nothing to say.
When it’s too hard to speak
You may think
I’ve got nothing to say.

When what I want to say, I don’t want to discuss;
Or the time or place don’t fit the content,
I’ll stay my tongue,
And I’ll think,
“I’ve got nothing to say.”

When my head fills with warnings:
A seizure may be imminent!
To avoid a repeat
I’ll have to retreat;
Catch my breath,
Guard my driving privilege.

When saddened by news
Or burdensome views,
Unless you’re my spouse
Or have lived in the same house,
I’m a startled field mouse.

When I want to slow
The gushing blood flow
From the mark of Cupid’s arrow,
For reasons above,
Hand in black glove
Covers my mouth.

When a loved one is leaving,
My sighs are my lungs heaving,
I want to shout “don’t go”
Until my voice fills the sky;
But the sorrow I feel
Drains my brain
Until my words
Are no longer therein contained.

And when I just want to sit—
The landscape moon lit—
Enjoy the view for a bit,
Silence is a hit
If you’re in it.

©2015 H.K. Longmore