There Was Nothing on TV and My Pen Went Dry Before I Could Finish My Suicide Note

Neither Here Nor There

There's been a rhythm to these things:
The love, the loss, the vast expanse
Of numbness, then the love again.
The women always had to go,
And their departures, painful as
They were, left wounds which
Healed at last, allowing me
To go back to my customary way
Of living, silent and alone, but this
One breaks the metronome. She's
Loved but isn't quite a love.
She's near, but I remain alone.
She's wounded me, but doesn't
Go, so I can never heal.


Beauty and the Beast

You've seen me, grubby, bearded,
Not a handsome man, nor one
Who's suave. The beard may
Catch a woman's eye, but none
Will throw herself at me. That's
How it's been since I began to
Wish one of them did, and,
Now, at sixty years of age, I'm
Also old. I've grown accustomed
To not being seen by women
Decades younger than I am.
They, like the men, want
Youthful lovers. They don't
Need another dad or some
Decrepit lech, so what does
This one, young and pretty,
Want to get from me? I love
Her. So does someone else.
Though old and awkward,
Also married, I have told her
Of my love, expecting her to
Be appalled and shriek, “You
Get away from me!” She
Hasn't. She wants me to stay.
She doesn't like me seen with
Her, but worries when I'm out
Of sight. I seem to give her
Something that she needs.
It may be adoration. She is
Everything to me, and, though
I doubt I'll ever really know
What I provide to her, you
Must admit that I am lucky.
Look at her, so sweet and lovely,
Then look back at me.


All Else is Trivia

“Don't think of her. She isn't here.
You must have something else to do.”
“There's nothing else which comes
To mind.” “The world spirals into
Chaos. Crabby titans sit inside of
Palaces in Switzerland, chewing
Their filets mignons and sipping
Wine, and whining that their
Factories are shutting down. It's
Tough to make a buck, they say.
A billion bucks is what they mean,
And hardship's clearly relative.
The workers from those factories
Have lost their jobs. The things
They've been reduced to doing
Prove it's hard to make a buck.
The titan's bonuses are trimmed,
But they still have their jets. The
Wars are raging everywhere.
For now, they're separate, little
Blazes. Presidents and diplomats
Assure us they can be controlled,
But, soon enough, they'll come
Together. All of us will burn.
The planet bakes. We're short
Of water. Children who have
Drowned keep washing up on
European shores. Your house
Needs paint, a roof, a kitchen.
Clearly, there is much to do.”
“You're right, but she seems
More important. I will think of her.”


As If You'd Swung a Baseball Bat

Sometimes, it hurts to be your secret,
As I was again today, the one man on
The planet who is not allowed to talk
To you, to walk with you when others
See. I have to try to find a time when
You are somewhere by yourself . If I
Do, you will speak to me, but, if there's
Anybody near, your panic plays across
Your face, and I know I should move
Away, to be ignored again at least,
For hours, usually for days, and, in
That darkness you impose, do you
Know how I hurt?


And Then Swung Again

Each awkward silence is a blow,
Each aftermath a less successful
Effort to repair the wound. I know
The rules, Ariel: when someone's
Near, you will not speak, and, lately,
Someone's always near, but, still,
Your silence eats at me. Do those
Others muffle you, or is my welcome
Wearing thin? I haven't much
To offer you, my love, a ruined
Reputation. Is the former not
Enough? End your silence.
Simply tell me, should I stay
Or go?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 89 times
Written on 2016-01-25 at 02:37

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