Tag Archives: poem

The Cocoon and the Butterfly

Oh, return to me, my cocoon!
In days gone by I tried to flee
Thy protecting wall;
Enticed by a beautiful butterfly,
Beautiful, smart, and cunning;
Who passed by to catch my eye.
Confident you were holding me back,
I tried to flee, but it made my skin crawl.

One day I fled, I pushed through thy barrier;
I was free to pursue the dazzling beauty.
But it took time for my wings to dry.
As I waited she passed on signals,
Intended or no, that she fancied me.
At long last, my wings dry, I tested them.
They felt strong, they felt beautiful.

I sought an answer to the paradox
That to know whether I’d like to fly
On a long journey with her at my side,
I’d need to spend more time with her;
Yet making the request could rend her desire.

I forgot lesson learned, and sought
A simple answer to a simple question.
I fluttered and flew ’til I came to her;
The air around was warm,
Warm as the day man discovered fire.
I asked if she would for a time fly with me.
But lo! I took too long, or she forgot,
Or she was filled with treachery, I thought.
I play no games, words at face value take.
My beauty was sufficient, she had already revealed,
But by her words she chose disinterest,
And I, I nearly froze.

Come back to me, my safe cocoon!
Bring back the crawling of my flesh.
Protect me once again, and I’ll grow,
I’ll grow more beautiful than before.
Let her do whatever she will;
I will emerge when metamorphosis completes,
A grander thing with prettier hues.

Can a butterfly enter a second time into his cocoon?

I spent a sleepless night, defenseless;
Vulnerable as I tried to find you, my cocoon.
I carried on with my life, sad, solemn, painted smile,
Until time and circumstance provided that simple answer:
Her response, “Why would you ask me that?”
May have meant something else to her,
But for me it is the pointing finger of rebuke:
By asking that simple question,
I lost a slice of honor, and with it beauty,
As the missing honor reveals my inner caterpillar.
Treachery it was not, but her wings fluttered
More true than mine, flailing and ripping from caterpillar me.

I look about to find she has fled,
Distancing herself by degrees;
A dream I had while still cocooned,
Before I ever saw her, stands partially fulfilled.
In the dream after she fled, I could not find her,
And I became a creature most reprehensible.
Oh take me back, my cocoon,
Heal my self-inflicted wound!
Let me not arrive at the fate foretold.

But can a butterfly enter a second time into his cocoon?
I can’t seem to find you, my cocoon; gone as the butterfly.
So I seek building blocks of water and bread, flesh and blood.

Copyright © 2014 H.K. Longmore

Gone As The Year

Gone are the days when she parented me,
Saying, “You should come with us sometime;”
Should being a parenting word,
Not a word for use with an equal.

Gone are the days when she talked with me,
Free as the dawn, bright as a butterfly.
Plauged with constrained conversation,
No give-and-take reciprocation.

That year is gone; now I get the silent treatment
Or paying no attention to me,
Only to others around.
A test of jealousy?

I feel no jealousy, only self-respect.
Of him, nor him, nor him am I jealous.
Rather, I respect myself to enforce this condition:
Pay attention to me, talk with me, be an equal.

Today the condition is not held.
Today she has only deliberately ignored.
Today is filled with inequality.
So I fill my heart with disregard.

Tomorrow I’ll try to disregard today.

Copyright © 2014 H.K. Longmore

Related Posts:

Reciprocation

John Lyly we paraphrase: “All’s fair in love and war.”
My euphuistic lines elicit sounds nasal,
Through bore bring some to snore.

Do not chase, some say,
The right people who belong in your life
Will come find you and stay.

But remember reciprocity is a knife
For opening packaged moments
With emotion rife—

Those which strife foment,
Those we wish would endure forever;
And some that changed what “Oh!” meant.

It is at work in nearly all endeavors,
The reader to the writer
The chef to your olfactory pleasure.

It is in the ring with prize fighters,
The teacher and student learning together;
And two that hold each other tighter,

In the hills of Banoffee, in the heather.
It aids mighty generals, war-seasoned,
And strangers talking of the weather.

Reciprocity is also the reason
For joy deep in the core
When laryngeal treasures aural nerves are pleasing;

When heartstrings sing “Je t’adore”.

Copyright © 2014 H.K. Longmore

Related Posts:

 

Languages of Love

An Americanized Haiku cycle

I was clearing snow off of people’s vehicles at work the other day before leaving, and I was reminded of an event and conversation from a few years ago. This served as a partial inspiration for this poem. One Sunday in March that year, I was clearing snow off of people’s vehicles after church (the congregation consisted of single students). There was one vehicle in particular that I wanted to clear the snow from, as an act of service to utilize that third language of love. A friend was helping me, and I made sure I cleared the snow from the car I wanted to. We did several other cars, and eventually a female friend leaving from choir practice "caught" us as we were near her car. Later, our ward congregation gathered for prayer in the evening. This female friend brought up the snow clearing. In response to whatever she had said, I mentioned that indeed, there was one car in particular I wanted to get. My friend asked, "So did you get the car you wanted to get?" I said I had. Another young woman had come near around then, heard that last bit, and asked, "So what kind of car did you get?" It still makes me laugh.

Doctor John Lund speaks
Of three languages of love.
Not Latin nor Greek;

Communication
Of feelings of affection,
Of adoration,

Is what classifies
These universally known
Tongues of human kind.

The first, as a dove,
From our mouths come dulcet tones
Showing forth heart, mind;

To loved ones they fly.
A kiss, a hug, holding hands
In Venn Diagram

Circle of second,
Dear to the heart they beckon
As time slips away.

Oh be not dismayed,
I’ll tell you language third;
‘Tis where love is shown

By deed, being served.
In all these my heart has grown,
And each I have sown.

Sometimes by custom
Or by laws of God or man
Language may be banned.

These words, please trust ’em,
When speaking love is taboo;
Ca, c’est défendu,

Skin—largest organ—
To caress, tickle, or kiss.
Use laws De Morgan:

Not second or first
Leaves for use only the third—
In service find bliss,

Though craving for word
And spark and fire you may miss
(Not alone in this),

From one heart they come.
Ability to feel not numbed
By unspoken tongues;

Heart with song now hums
E’en though sleep be required,
By thee inspired.

Copyright © 2014 H.K. Longmore

Three Misses

Soaking wet

Leaving work one day I took my AWD vehicle through a patch of snow that wasn’t plowed. The magnitude of my velocity vector was too small, inspiring the second stanza. My pants and gloves got soaked trying to dig the snow out from underneath.

Was it this word,
Or that, that she said?
“Life” he thought he heard,
But ’twas spoken while she fed;
“Mouth” is thus not absurd.
Misheard.

It will not budge;
His car is stuck.
The ice-crusted snow it can only nudge.
Did he think he drove a truck?
Must he now homeward trudge?
Misjudged.

For words overheard in passing he could
Seek meaning, though lacking context.
Alternate possibilities, weight of wood,
He might settle on the wrong text.
The comment made, was it for the good?
Misunderstood.

Copyright © 2014. H.K. Longmore

Sirens, Angels, and Recruiters

Odysseus and the Sirens. An 1891 painting by J...

Odysseus and the Sirens. An 1891 painting by John William Waterhouse. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A recruiter for a company quite famous
Sought me out, activating my white ramus.
She shuffled the cards and splayed the deck
To tempt me with projects high tech.

The timing’s wrong, said I, though enticed.
She said she would again roll the dice
To see if feelings mine remained the same
In months a few (if few and couple share a name).

A couple have passed, and the idea’s tempting.
The coolness factor plays my vanity unrelenting;
But I’ve not heard her voice,
There could be a siren hidden in this choice.

And I’m still entranced by another voice:
The lure of siren or an angel that doth rejoice.
Yet voice of siren it cannot be, of this I am sure,
For a siren is always singing, always lures

And such is not the case.
Sometimes this voice is with caterwaul laced.
It oft times will test and try me;
Yet in proximity, from its power I cannot flee.

Is it the call of an angel then?
I have a key plucked from garden zen:
Pray tell, my friend, what is an angel?
A servant, a messenger—from Greek angelos.

No message by this voice hath been delivered;
No token of the Served hath my knees quivered.
A mere mortal then? And yet the voice I ken:
‘Tis a Muse for my pen.

So to the recruiter my thoughts return:
A siren lure, or an escape—a sauternes
To dull my mind, the power of the voice forget;
Kismet that the voice no more my heart beset?

My feelings do not so quickly change,
I’m loath my life to rearrange,
But it would provide the easy way out;
Leaving future wonder in full doubt.

My heart says the timing’s still off,
Though I avoid the voice by my cough.
Call it inaction, call it fate;
My head agrees and so I wait.

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

The Spoon, the Bull, and the Pickaxe

If you're installing a sink, and you have to do this to get the pipes to connect, try another way. That way, those coming after you won't curse your unknown name.

If you’re installing a sink, and you have to do this to get the pipes to connect, try another way. That way, those coming after you won’t curse your unknown name.

A small metal spoon slipped silently,
Submerged beneath the suds,
Into the dark abyss of the insinkerator,
Preventing progress
Of waste: from a garlic press,
Or catered scraps of ‘tater;
From recipes now deemed duds
As the baker sighs gently.

The proverbial china shop
Guards against the bull.
Upon learning of his coming,
The owner clears all his stocks.
But his plan the bull mocks;
His hooves, incessant drumming
With which he breaks societal rule.
Now comes the owner’s son, armed with mop.

A pickaxe-wielding ‘niner,
I strike my core and rock the spike:
Am I ever the bull,
Or am I at times the spoon?
Do I stop the disposer’s tune,
Or as a bull—as a fool—
Do I others psyche,
Yet think I am the china?

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

Three Short Strands

One

Every time I do, I’m glad I did.
Every time I don’t, with myself I’m livid.
Perhaps someday my gladness I’ll learn
To follow instead of letting my stomach churn.

Two

One winter night
On her memory a blight:
Seized as I stood;
The result would not be good.

Pulled from a fall,
I turned to see gall:
Certain it was my choice,
To sorrow her feet gave voice.

Three

Over the edge he leans,
The river’s eyes gleam.
He tries to let it run through,
To bid its warm touch welcome,
But fears what he’d become
If nothing grew.

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

Cathartic Ventures

The whistle of a teapot
As the painter adds another spot.
The spillway with water flows
As the writer pens some prose.

Steam exudes from the dryer vent
While the poet works out what he meant
And what he said from what he intended,
For fear the meaning was upended.

But tonight well after dark,
This guy, he was a madman in the park:
Singing at the top of his lungs,
A full concert was sung.

He sang some old favorites, some new
In full pursuit of cathartic stew.
Twenty songs later, he left for home
Solely because his smartphone battery groaned.

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

The Metronome and the Score

I demand your attention, first and foremost.
Do not consider Melody, don’t with Harmony cheat.
At your party, I am the host.
You can find me after the key: I am the beat.

Relentless am I, so mind the ligature.
And unless you see bird’s eye view,
Sequence keep and count me true;
Else reap the sequitur
Of ignoring my signature.

Should you try to force my hand
Doting on members of the band
Or giving devotion to the tempo,
I’ll plant no jealous seed, give no heed—
We’ll fail to find crescendo.
Annoyed? Take it up with Jack Dempsey.

Try again my affection to win
By focusing on a riff
The riff will be lost in the din
And my affection in the rift.

But keep four on the floor
Or accentuate the off beat in four-four
You may begin to feel
The tapping of your heel
And find that you more than the score I adore!

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

Of Dreams and Tears

An amazing thing
Is the heart
Beating strong
Life-long

But here’s the sting:
Some come apart—
Hardened with age,
Or filled with rage—
And fail.

Some are supple and soft,
But for all their calm,
Their dreams aloft,
Even seeking Gilead‘s balm,
They will yet wail.

Time has passed
Since I awoke
Dreams saline-soaked—
Streams of a lass.

Though I knew her name,
I knew not why tears came
Streaming down her face.
Oh, if I could her sorrow replace!

She sat three rows in front.
I wondered to what affront
These brooks belonged.
For knowledge I longed.

So of my dream-guide
I enquired discretely,
Who replied so sweetly,
“On thy account she cries.”

Dreaming still, I motioned
For her to come talk with me
Away from the people-ocean.
I took her by the hand
Beyond the people-sand—
For all her tears she could barely see.

Through stifled sobs
The reasons for her sorrow
She revealed.

To reasons for hope I appealed;
Her pain my heart did harrow,
With handkerchief I daubed

Until heart beats
And desire’s throbs
Did meet.

I awoke with a start
My thoughts darting:
Was it real? No, just a dream;
Tears ephemeral.

But now I wonder
Have I blundered?
Have my actions been cause
For her to pause?

When she is where I can’t look,
Have tears streamed down her cheek?
When I’m not where I can take a peek,
Has she formed those saline brooks?

Or is her heart
Safely at rest
In a simple chest
Of bone, and sinew, and flesh?

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

  • Done Trying (crazyhotmess1995.wordpress.com) – Though most certainly not the inspiration for this poem, this post captures the idea of the sorrow in the dream.

Veil of Curiosity

The query heard so oft
From the mouth of young
From your lips now ascends
Softly to my ears.

A child who holds “why” dear
Rarely she pretends
To hold it in her lungs,
Nor her mind aloft,

The answer that she seeks;
Her query comes sincere.
Repeatedly he asks,
His keen mind filled with
Curiosity.

I think between your cheeks
An answer appears;
In the light your face basks
Of words with great pith
Hoped for aurally.

But no matter how bold
Nor how confident
I may be, I am bound;
To say what I wish
Is not my luxury.

My tongue I must hold,
Or reap the consequence
Foretold—I have found,
When words hoped for you fish,
I know I’m not free

By the way my skin crawls
As I mentally
Take that small step.  I stall;
To my face gently,
Quickly I raise the veil:
Curiosity.

My answer returns softly,
My desire unsung.
Disappointment transcend
As heart changes gear

And through thin veil I peer;
My words I amend.
Hope upon these words hung,
As thin veil doffed:

If it’s meant to be,
Then someday it will be.

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore