Tag Archives: communication

Freeway Exit

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.

Silent Witness

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

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

Growth

In years past I oft
Agonized
Over conversations
And situations

That didn’t go as planned—
Botched—
Then wearied family and mates
As I over-analyzed:

“If only I said this,
I should have said that.”
“I wish I hadn’t done this,
I’m sure I should have that.”

I still over-analyze,
But recently reflecting
On recalled responses,
I see a change:

Where before my
Wrenching
Was over how I felt,
The impact on outcomes for me;

My thoughts of “if this,”
My self-lecturing of
“I should have that,”
Have to do with the other:

If I had done this,
It would have helped him feel more comfortable.
If I had said that,
She would have been reassured.

Self-introspection is fun
When you actually grow!
Now to learn from myself,
And help others be comfortable, reassured.

“Let’s talk again soon,” I say to myself.

©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

Betrayed

When words threaten, threaten to destroy
The secrets you keep in your heart—
Perhaps about a girl, perhaps a boy—

When Double Entendre and Hidden depart,
Torn by some innocent ploy,
Leaving in their place a sting that smarts;

Let not your fortune steal your joy,
Find a new plan, make a new start;
Seek a new muse and remain coy.

© 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.

Remote

In the smartphone age,
Nothing makes a place remote
As no cell access.

Crossing o’er the strait,
T-Mobile texted new rates
For Victoria.

But at Lake Crescent,
No emails nor texts; dropped calls
The best I could get.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Parting

Questions

Questions pour from his brain
Into the cup below.
Questions about the coming change.
They pile up and overflow.

Soon the saucer can’t contain;
The queries reach the picot.
Not to worry, they won’t stain;
Though covering the table they go.

Questions pour from his brain
Into the cup below.
But from partaking he’ll refrain,
From the cup he’ll not swallow;

Should he the cup drain,
At the bottom is a plea: “don’t go.”

The Means and the End

Somewhere there are brothers
Who didn’t know how to say goodbye.
They chose to alienate
Rather than shed a tear.

On one occasion, one gave a fist
To his son as a parting gift.
It happened unexpectedly,
In the face, among family and friends.

Another time, the other gave a threat,
Fist held chest high,
Waiting for the right moment;
Begging for the right provocation.

The provocation didn’t come,
In time the fist dissolved into a hand.
So long ago, it seems another time,
Another land.

Withdrawl

Refusing to be provoked,
Another who has difficulty
Deals with imminent departure
Antisocially.

His problem is not the violence of fists,
But the violence of silence,
The hand-to-hand of withdrawing.
He chooses to “drink alone”.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

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