Tag Archives: bliss and glad life

Virtual Needle

“Have a good night,”
I say cheerfully.
Silence.

Again.

I sit down at my desk
And think to myself,
“My current playlist—Ophelia—
Is insufficient for the hour.
Where is the one
I created a year ago,
For an occasion much like this?

Ah, there it is, right below
Cryogenically freeze your heart and
Don’t leave your heart in a hard place:
Essential Oils for the Silent Treatment.”
I put the virtual needle on the record
And apply my musical pharmacopoeia;
Unsure of how my heart will emerge:
Frozen, hard, or healed.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Expat

Author’s note: yes, yes, I know, I’ve bent the definition of expatriate a bit. Deal or chill.

What is an expat?
An expatriate.
Someone who used to live
In the country where you still do.

What made them choose to leave?
Did they feel by their country wronged?
A soldier and his wife felt so,
So off to her native Australia they go.

Have some chosen to leave
In pursuit of fortune or fame?
Perhaps on this some will lay claim,
Leaving behind family and friends lief.

Perchance they’re in pursuit
Of a lifelong ambition;
They want dreams to come to fruition,
To this end they uproot.

Are there ghosts from the past
Leaving them aghast?
A change of clime
Could be most sublime.

I once considered making Australia my home:
I’d soak my feet in South Pacific foam.
I counted up my likely score
To enter through citizenship’s door.

My chosen profession gave me a boost,
I’d just need a job,
And the score for this yob
Would let him in Brisbane or Canberra roost.

Heeding pleas
Of family,
Their fears I allayed,
And stayed;

Allowing me to sometimes host
Family parties and social gatherings,
And in the cling and clattering
I lost the ghosts.

Now, for one, ghosts gather up ahead,
As news fills him with dread:
He learns from the backchat
That a dear one wants to be an expat.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

The Hardest Prayers

Some may think it kind
To pray for others success.
But one may come to find
In that prayer, distress:

He wishes her success in her goals,
He prays fervently for it, but there’s a toll:
Much to his dismay,
Her goals will take her away.

Can he secretly hope she fails,
While praying she gets that letter in the mail?
No, ’tis selfish, ’tis not love.
He’ll send a unified message above.

Each time her departure is spoken of,
Part of his heart withers,
And though it goes against his druthers,
He’ll hope for that which sorrow comes of.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Free Agent Actor

He is the only free agent actor;
All others just playing a part.
They look at him when news is given
Of another’s eventual departure:

Their eyes say,
“Have you forgotten your lines?”
The energy vibe he gets says,
“You jerk; just because you’re free,
Don’t ruin it for the rest of us!”

But no one gave him a script,
And some actions were expressly forbidden
Twelve moons ago; around the time
He was socially blocked.

And so he remains: blocked, forbidden;
No conversation as they go,
Signals not much different than before.

Hamlet-like, he utters a soliloquy:
“To stay, or not to stay,
To speak, or not to speak.”

He tries to stay this side of madness,
And allow Ophelia an escape,
Perchance to France with Laertes,
If her only other option is to climb a tree.

But he’ll not say, “Get thee to a nunnery,”
And he’d rather not boast of love
Greater than 40,000 brothers:
Philos is not eros, and it’s a rather grave boast.

Copyright© 2015 H.K. Longmore

Protected: Game Clock Time – With Links

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Game Clock Time

I’m told in certain circumstances in tournament soccer play, it can be advantageous to lose a game so that you play a weaker opponent next, and a stronger opponent plays a stronger opponent, possibly losing, thus allowing you to play the weaker team and win. I suppose it is possible that under certain circumstances, a tie would be advantageous, and possibly a 0 – 0 tie. That supposition is a required backdrop for this poem.

The hour appears to draw near
When the game clock sings
And the crowd will cheer;

And I will leave the field a victor,
Despite the score being zeros.
Not by my being a hero, no.

By: my fear of the unknown,
the strength side of my weakness,
my ultimatum uncommunicated, unfulfilled.

All shots on the goal missed;
Some deflected, others poorly timed,
And some badly aimed.

And though time remains,
I’m like a quarterback
Kneeling after the snap;

I must keep the ball
Centered mid-field
And watch the clock expire,

For fear a warning dream
Becomes my future,
And I don’t wake with a scream.

I must watch the clock run out,
From self-respect on a two-way street,
Where what’s good for the goose—

You may think I’ll be tired,
Running around in circles
Trying to keep the ball away;

But the only circles I’ll be running
Will be the ones in my mind.
There’s but two on the field:

The goalie and me.
Guarding the goal, the goalie won’t yield;
Never engaging me to take the ball.

I cannot enter the goal box,
So I set the ball at mid-field,
And slowly back away;

Still, the goalie won’t engage.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore

Afternoon Shiver

It is meeting time.
Distracted by passers by,
Listen and observe.

I observe this one
Coming and going again.
The meeting goes on;

This one goes again.
My body soon shivers hard;
No explanation:

I’m indoors, it’s warm;
Winter has yet to strike here.
But still I shiver.

She returns once more,
A sweater now adorns her.
Shivering explained?

Sand Castle

Two children meet on a beach;
For their sand shovels reach.
A castle they build,
With dreams it’s filled.

But the filling of the moat
They leave to the sea.
And the sea is pleased:
On the castle he dotes.

He reaches the moat with each high tide,
With each high tide, the moat is complete.
With each low, the heat competes
For the castle’s mastery.
Continue reading

The Cost of Comfort

“Oh, my pillow, my soft, absorbent pillow!
What words of comfort have you for me today?”
Cheer up, all is not lost.
“And what will be the cost?”

Two drops is all.
“And what can I get for five?”
You are loved, even if some mistreat you.
You can have the pair for six.

“And how much for a verbal hug?”
Now that’s a tricky one,
A difficult task for a pillow.
What’s it worth to you?

I’ve saved up a lot,
Over days, weeks, months.
I wonder how much I should offer.
Would a cup be too much?

But as I start to pay
The dam bursts,
The stream won’t be held back.
“Is this enough?”

©2014 H.K. Longmore

Tiptoe

I’ve been bit by the “I can’t focus on any personal projects long enough to complete them” bug again. My banjo was calling to me a few weeks ago, telling me of how I’d been neglecting it for far too long. So I got it out, and had to get my chord book so I could remember some chords I’d forgotten. In so doing, I rediscovered a song I wrote, and another that I wrote lyrics for but no music, both nine years old. So I decided it was time to give the lyrics some music. And that’s taken me away from writing poetry, or finishing my edits for my upcoming poetry book. In the meantime, here’s a quick ditty to let you, my dear followers, know I’m not dead yet.

I’ve offended my Muse
She’s not amused
My pen feels used
The paper, abused

So now I tiptoe past
Unlike days gone by
When my footwear
Announced to all

My imminent arrival.

©2014 H.K. Longmore

Descent

Raindrops fall
Fast, wet, calm.
My vision is clouded,
But my car knows the way home.

I miss the exit,
Then take the wrong one.
My vision blurs,
But my car knows the way home.

My heart descends
Into sorrow and sadness.
At last, with no connection,
I must have found my cocoon:

The crawling of my skin
Must result from falling in.
Clouds cry,
And I shudder.

And my car returns
To where I would have been
Were the day drier,
The weather fairer.

Trying to numb the pain,
I miss my turn
When my focus falters.
But my car, it knows.

With the press of a button,
The shelter called home
Opens to protect
My car from the falling rain.

Inside, wipers run
To clear the remaining
Drops of rain
From the windshield.

Another button press
And the door descends
To shield and protect.
I turn off the engine,

Keep the music playing,
And release the pain.
I let it course
Through my veins,

Overwhelm my brain.
I feel wetness in my eyes
Streams of water on my cheeks.
For tears I’m too vain;

How can the wetness be explained?
There must be a leak in my house,
A leak in my car,
Letting in some rain.

I head inside, the moisture stops.
Sitting in my writing chair,
I put down some thoughts.
Writing done, I discover another leak.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore

What lies beneath

Uncomfortable in his skin,
He vowed it would never happen again.
He claimed mostly he was disappointed in him.

But allowing time for reflection,
It turns out he lied.
Yes, he was disappointed—
Even in his self—
But more than that,

Disappointed he didn’t act
When the timing was right,
Sorrowful for the confusion,

And heartbroken at missed opportunity.