Tag Archives: communication

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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A Fool’s Lament

Oh, that I had done
What I thought would be most fun,
Instead of nothing.

Oh that I had talked
When your heart still with me walked,
But I gave silence.

Oh that you could know
How oft I came to say hi,
Only you were gone.

© 2015 H.K. Longmore

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

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

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

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

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

A Sincere Comment

A sincere comment,
Misunderstood,
Does little to no good

When the person meant to smile
Is gone for a while,
Perceived insult to lament.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

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

A Conversation among Synapses


Said the first: “Another poem on that?”
“Yes, because that’s where I’m at,”
Came the second’s reply.
“What will you say differently this try?

Perhaps a search is in order,
To avoid the border
‘Tween repetition and insanity?
Or will that hurt your vanity?”

The second obliged,
Conducted a search:
“Task”, the query supplied.
The results the idea besmirched.

Said the second: “To you I tip my hat,”
And gave the first a pat.
“The repetition would be neither sly,
Nor very wry.

It would turn the ardor
To bland horror.”
Argued the first: “You make a center of gravity
From that which is triviality.”

“Yes, yes,” the second cried,
“And you’ve thrown me from my perch!”
Then, letting his hyperbole subside,
A new thought train moved forward with a lurch.

©2015 H.K. Longmore