Tag Archives: memories

Adrift

Author’s note: sometimes I find it interesting to see how a poem evolves. So, here’s one that started as a somewhat freestyle poem, that, after time passed, I decided to turn into a sauna sonnet.

Freestyle

Empty hole
In core of his soul.
He forgot his goals.
Time galore, but still needs more.
Missing half amplifies 
Ambition lost;
Life simplifies
But at what cost?
Time now consumed by adult toddler
Who, when he was a toddler, was his coddler.
And feverishly, manically recalling
Memories of the missing, haunting and enthralling.
The missing becomes his poem,
In danger of being lost forever,
The bliss and glad life
No longer its own witness.

Sauna Sonnet

Introspection: he finds an empty hole
Down deep in the core of his troubled soul;
Goals forgot when he set out to explore.
He had time galore, but still he needs more.
It seems the missing piece now amplifies
Several signals of his ambition lost;
Bittersweet: he finds his life simplifies,
His schedule now streamlined, but at what cost?
Time now consumed by an adult toddler,
Who was, when he was a toddler, coddler.
And feverish, manically recalling
Memories of the missing—enthralling,
Haunting—the missing becomes his poem,
Bliss and glad life, no longer witness own.

Copyright ©️ 2025 H.K. Longmore

Not In

"Are you doing okay?" she asked with caring eyes.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I gave the oft repeated lies.
It was neither the place nor time,
To get into my sorrow, to make saline rivers sublime.
I'll tell the truth, should she again ask, 
When we're homeward bound.
I'll tell her of how sometimes, behind my mask,
I feel I don't belong, I shouldn't be around.
Or perchance I'll let her choose:
Does she want the strong façade
Or the vulnerable truths?
The tender heart, or full bravade?
I won't say something she uttered was the trigger.
But she didn't ask, so I'll stand by my rigor.

Copyright ©️ 2024 H.K. Longmore

Vacant Echoes

Adductors: his vacant stare sees right past
But sees just short of bench where sits some lass
As she works her core, so through to her core
His eyes pierce as some demigod of lore.
Intrigued, she wonders what his eyes might see, 
But his eyes see nothing to bring him vim,
Just another human at the same gym.
Drenched in pensive fluid: wooden bench's salt sea;
Patiently replaying past episodes,
His focus lost in the past—Heaven's odes—
Sees another young woman in his mind:
Dark hair, middle part, bun or tail behind.
Unspoken echoes cloud the mind, her face
Unseen in vacant echoes of the night.

Author’s note: this takes some bits and pieces from an unpublished poem that evolved over the course of about a year. One version of that poem took a dark turn after six or seven stanzas. One version was too much of a “when you know what you don’t know” situation. The most recent version of that poem doesn’t end as hopefully as I would like, though I think it does capture the sentiment of “things are falling apart, no matter what I try to do to hold them together,” or, “this is not how I pictured things would be a year ago” with an unstated “can we go back a year and get a do-over?” I generally liked that poem, but it was maybe too personal, and in some minds, lacking context, could be seriously misunderstood. So, I’ve opted to canabalize that one in favor of other art.

My first attempt at this poem, on the other hand, was the inspiration for Trashed.

Copyright © 2024 H.K. Longmore

Beach Wreck

Author’s note: I initially titled this “#4” because it was the fourth of my “sauna sonnet” series, and I was trying to develop a habit of writing sonnets in the sauna during my post-strength-training sauna sessions. Lest some future historian discover my poetry and chide me for such an unimaginative title, I decided to give it a different name.

Across the distance of days long and dark,
And through fields littered with chords from our past,
Solace seek in knowledge, high water mark,
Try to make joy brought by your grand smiles last.
But it's been so long, the miles fade away,
White sands pass o'er the wings of time, beach-wrecked.
Waves at my feet mock recall of that day,
Digital palms lessen rip tide's effect.
I do not fear the shame of going back,
Nor the possibility I yet lack,
But if I see your face never again
I'll let sands trade sanity for bliss,
Dreaming always of that last parting kiss
We never had, through one lifetime or ten.

Copyright ©️ 2024 H.K. Longmore

Saline Rivers, Fresh Tides

"Come and play with us!' His fellows called out.
"Come dance with us!" Peers tried to remove doubt.
He put up no fuss, nor yet did he yield.
They knew not the reason future revealed.
Me, now, options weighed, I'd like to have played;
I'd like to have leapt and danced through the glade.
But, uncomfortable in my own skin,
I had saline rivers to cross.
For the victor is the field,
But also for the beaten down.
Both, one day, will wear a crown.
And know ye that I ye kin?
I float no better on fresh tides than salty currents;
My welcomings of the same, recurrent.

Copyright ©️ 2024 H.K. Longmore

Statistically Significant

Author’s note; I wrote this a while back, but decided enough time has passed, that it was time to dust it off and put it out in the visible universe.

Apart so long,
His heart began
A mournful song,
For his tears to gan.

Desire to see her
Once again, intensifies;
Until similar features
Trick his eyes:

Others, he knows,
Are not her,
Yet seem for a moment
They could be.

These hold his gaze
Until at last
He is satisfied
They are too dissimilar.

But it seems
The greater his longing,
The less similar
Another must look;

At what degree of dissimilarity
Will his eyes cease their tricks?
What is the threshold to keep them
Statistically significant?

©2023 H.K. Longmore

Out to Lunch

Allow me to set the stage:
The stage was set,
From strings to winds,
Percussion at their back.

Trombone scans the audience
Looking for familiar face;
Between strings and lights,
Sees none.

No matter,
Though life-changing it could be:
Now is time to focus,
Now is time to play.

Trombone shifts to euphonium;
Focus, his shadow.
Back to trombone,
Shadow maintained.

Applause over,
Ovations ended,
Instruments
Clear the stage.

Brain out to lunch, shadow stays;
Trombone turns to talk to tuba,
Then bid farewell until next time
The orchestras combine.

Leaving the stage,
To retrieve his shell,
Trombone's brain
Returns from lunch.

"By the way,"
Trombone brain says,
Replaying the recording made
While out to lunch,

"Someone called out,
'Nice job on the trombone!'
While you were talking to the tuba."
It may have been that familiar face.

Already gone from the stage,
And minutes passed,
Trombone
Picks up the pace.

Back on stage,
Putting instruments in case,
Trombone searches remaining audience,
Finds no familiar face.

Trombone leaves
To put all gear
In his car,
Then enters again

In search of that voice,
That face.

Crowd thinned,
It was clear,
The Complimenter
Had left.

Trombone replayed the compliment,
To identify the voice;
Memory obscured by delay
Before the replay.

Time steals clarity,
Memory morphs,
'Til Trombone remembers it
As if compliment was heard when spoken,

Leaving Trombone with the guilt
Of ignoring the Complimenter,
And the effect,
But not the intention.

© 2023 H.K. Longmore

Etch-a-Sketch Memories

I trace the lines
One more time.
And again and again
I review the details.

They are all there;
No minutia missing.
Memories that keep me up
Etched into grey granite.

Not afraid of the future,
But afraid of repeating the past,
I store them safely, securely,
Where they can govern future actions.

Sometimes I wish I etched them
On an Etch-a-Sketch.
I’d repeat some mistakes,
But the granite gets heavy.

A year or more
Peppered with granite memories
Will weigh me down;
A millstone around my neck.

Weighed down by granite
For a year or more
Will bring me to
Depressed.

Head hit pillow
Two hours ago.
Sleep deprivation
Should have won by now.

It’s nearly four o’clock,
The lines still etch.
Can I just throw away this granite,
Or trade it for an Etch-a-Sketch?

© 2015 H.K. Longmore