Tag Archives: cathartic

Unnecessary Risk

Musical pharmacopoeia,
Not available this hour.
Not wanting to turn sweet grapes sour;
Emotions—need to cope with ya.

Powered sled,
Rev the throttle;
Caution fled,
No time to dawdle.

Maximum set
At a hundred and twelve;
Into the snow sled delves.
On myself make a bet.

Minor risk to longevity,
Reach speeds in excess
Of seventy;
Fly over convex sets

Of flakes pressed down,
Softened since dawn.
Purring loud, engine sound
Reveals I’ve left the ground.

But not to fear,
Bring your heart near:
‘Twas sweet gravity won
In my fun in the sun.

I fear I’ve been
Misunderstood;
‘Til clarity is found again,
And all made good,

I cope by taking on
Unnecessary risk.

Not pictured: the times I was going over 70 and getting airborne.

Donuts in an Empty Parking Lot

“You seem hesitant.”
The words echo in temporal space.
From squamous to sphenoid,
Thoughts race.

“Go away,” spoken to a notification.
Stirs up memories vague.
Emotional power of the plague,
Positives lean toward negation.

A fact shared
Or omitted—
Scale tared,
Over-analysis committed.

Grief Tantalean
Becomes grief obsess-ean;
Grief Promethean.

Relief
Requires efforts Herculean.
Answers Protean.

Seize seal shepherd
From behind; hold tight
While shapes shift for fright.
At last a voice heard:

“Son of Atreus,
What do you want from me?”
From mental prison to be freed,
To know what will be.

“Son of Atreus,
Why ask me thus?
Better for you not to know,
Not to learn what my mind holds.”

No future glimpse,
No respite from second guesses.
Seek out Tantalus,
Offspring of Zeus and nymph.

Parched tongue and lips
Inquired why, hands on hips.
Swift reply
With heavy sigh:

To drink, and not thirst;
To eat, and be sated.
“Me first,”
Tantalus waited.

Hands a scoop,
Water-soup
Brought to lips;
Fruit of bough
Into mouth slipped.

“You want to do donuts in an empty parking lot,
You want to put an end to over-thought;
To heal from childhood fears,
And teenage years,

“To not have your confidence
Stolen by the thief
Of yester-years’ defeats,
Nor drained by consequence

“Of verbal wounds, real;
Inflicting damage still;
Wounds that change perceive,
When only perception changed, self-deceived.

“You’ll have to wait until it snows.”
But there is another way I know.

© 2021 H.K. Longmore

Tantalus Lookout is to the left of this picture; as in, Diamond Head is visible from Tantalus Lookout.

Schadenfreude

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

Cordelia

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

Out of Sync

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.
outofsync
©2016 H.K. Longmore

Grape Harvest

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

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

Red Eyelids

Bass Clef mid-F, in eighths.
Bass Clef mid-F, final quarter.
Salute completed, we stand.
To the left a head panned.

Those eyes contained
Unmistakable pain.
Pain at my performance?
Pain at my conformance?

The show must go on.

Standing, Bass Clef top line, staccato,
Then drop an octave, staccato; final note.
Applause.
But still the pain gives me pause.

It was the dry throat,
I tell myself.
It was the sloped chair or stage,
I want to believe.

But my lips, not the stage,
Missed the notes.
My finger, not the chair,
Depressed the wrong valve.

Show concluded,
We pack up and depart.
I watch for those red eyes,
But they don’t look at me.

My silence? Unintended;
Trying to fathom
What I cannot see.
Do I misunderstand?

Rough knuckles,
White back of hand,
In close proximity;
Moment in time ever on my mind.

Copyright © 2016 H.K. Longmore

Touché

A touch is made to lamé
With blade épée,
One’s mettle to assay;
Or for swordplay.

Another is to allay
The dread of possible fey—
A rope, not frayed,
A climber to belay.

One touch doth bewray
An attitude blasé
Toward fine bouchée
Or rich pâté

To one’s dismay,
A touch someday
Arises from sashay,
Dress, not step, soigné.

You may find it cliché,
Often child’s play:
A touch to parlay
One browsing goods you purvey.

And though it lacks visé,
This is no hearsay:
Loving touché
Alive through envié,

Becomes not forté
But Woodsman’s wedge doth convey;
On a line partway
Betwixt foray and force play.

Intended to assert revendiqué,
Yet with gentle touché,
A chasm généré
Between source and marqué.

© 2016 H.K. Longmore

Embuscade

Y at-il communicaton
Lorsque la conversation
Doit passer par un intermédiaire?

Y at-il le respect
Quand une simple plainte
Ne peut pas être géré en personne?

Quand les gens ne me respectent pas assez
Pour me parler de choses que je fais
Cela dérange eux afin

Il me amène près
Pour le sentiment que je devais une fois avant
Vouloir de disparaître.

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The Dream That’s Been Haunting Me for the Last Two and a Half Years

I’ve been meaning to blog about this for a while now. There have been at least a couple of things holding me back, one of which is that I didn’t know how to do it without the content being “Mature”. I can do it without being crude or crass, but due to the nature of the dream, I would not recommend those looking for a G or PG post continue.

Also, I don’t want Google or other search engines getting confused about my typical fare, thus the actual post is at a different blog.

The Leper and the Doctor’s Couch

She has deliveries to make.
She rounds the cubicle walls,
Her voice lilting
As she greets each person.

Sometimes by name,
Others with a hello,
Always with excitement;
Her enthusiasm is evident.

I consider plugging in my headphones
So I’ll not know when she arrives;
But no, I know what to expect.
I choose to leave the clutter on the desk.

She enters my domain,
Not a word is spoken.
Gingerly she holds the booklet
Between two fingers:

I am a leper,
My disease flaking from me;
The fibers of the booklet
A transmissive medium.

She must minimize her contact
With that filthy rag
Lest she contract
What I have.

So I seek the doctor’s couch
In the spinning iron ore
Spread throughout the globe;
I inquire to find the prognosis.

But the diagnosis accurate
Comes from the heart;
It is as I presumed:
I am not a leper.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore