Slowly she enters the room
and approaches the bed.
She’s not feeling too keen on much else
than having poetry read.
She opens the book,
scans the room,
and gives you the look
Your breathless monologues
are what she needs.
She’s not looking for more,
only for your words.
Your voice begins to trigger sensations down below
as she closes her eyes,
Your words soothe the tension
as each word is given careful attention,
knowing how each one caresses her mind,
seizing on the opportunity
to the revealing of her true beauty;
this is your one chance for unity.
She is captured by your guise.
You firmly believe the efforts are worthwhile.
The feeling is mutual
and catching you both by surprise.
she’s reached her peak.
There are no more words left to speak.
The mind is tired and the body is weak.
You lean in and say, ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you next week.’
Overlooking the shoreline, a deep sigh forms releasing the exhaust of the day. Blowing out in the direction of the cool breeze, I scan the shore expecting something or someone, but it never comes.
Looking up, the pink moon rises over the North Sea and it hits me- this spot, this arresting moment is what I’ve been waiting for. Longing with anticipation eats away at such glorious living moments.
The wandering shoreline stragglers earlier in the day didn’t let anticipation eat away at them. No, they planned their morning that way; coordinating wakeup schedules and rushing out the door. Or maybe it was out of habit as early risers often do.
If the night didn’t consume me, I would become one of them. But I am committed to this rising pink moon; it calls to me to continue as a creature amongst the shadows.
Observing their intimate walk along the shoreline, she leaned into him with her interests for the day, her restaurant of choice, and how their family would visit in the afternoon. It was carefully arranged to be a pleasant day.
Or perhaps it was a secret rendezvous. After confessing their undying love, they took a chance they couldn’t let slip away. Their longing made their dream come true beginning with a morning walk along the shore.
Such dreams that I, too, once held as I now sit and wait with this rising pink moon.
It was close to the time we arranged to meet
here on our favorite park bench,
the one that overlooked the town green.
I sat with a view of passersby,
taking a glance at my watch
every once in a while.
It was any moment now,
the ripping away,
the bandage stripping off.
We didn’t need the words,
we both knew it had come to this.
You walked up with a carefree smile
and an ice cream cone
to smooth out the tone.
Your tongue rounded the ice cream,
like the times it used to do the same to me.
We couldn’t get back to those times,
before we hurled hate and indifference,
before you’d throw the suitcase into the trunk and disappear
but return to say ‘it’s all okay, it never meant anything anyway.’
So here we sat
with an impending implosion of my heart
while yours left months ago.
I turned and asked for a bite,
as memory flashes recalled bites taken
from your ears and down your neck,
lustful moments that we’ll never get back.
“So, this is it?” I asked already knowing the answer.
“This is it. It’s okay, we’ll be fine,” you replied.
The words were empty,
spoken as if you had already left,
spoken to reassure me,
that I would be fine
but you had already sailed on
and this was all formality.
“Okay… okay. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to …” I insisted.
Your eyes met mine,
cold but still with a bit of care.
‘Are you sure?’ you persisted.
Nodding, I pulled the ice cream from your hand,
swirled my tongue around and tried to replace the image
where my tongue knew it had ought to be.
If you’ve ever wondered how a recording session takes place…
I set up the laptop, open up GarageBand, plug in the headphones, adjust the mic settings, pull out a poem, and hit Record. I remind myself to speak clearly, to make sure I have the exact tone, to express the meaning of the poem. I start to fumble over the words, it’s a first pass, it’s normal. It’ll get better the next few rounds. I give it another go. A few lines in and then a tap of the mic. Bugger. Delete. I go several rounds. A dog barks. Delete. The kids run in circles above my studio. Delete. Now I’ve lost the intended tone. Delete. My throat is getting too dry. Delete and grab a drink. I give it one last shot. This one has got to be it. Now for the backing track. Music or sound effects? Match the theme of the poem or make it offbeat? Ooh, a nice saxophone and bongos would be neat. Pulling it all together and listening on repeat. That’s it! This recording is now complete.