Tag Archives: lost love

“Catch & Release”: A Villanelle

It was a barbless hook.

Erroneous as this belief may be,

might be why you tore loose.

Although that day was clear,

I was blinded by tears and I could not see

it was a barbless hook.

You swam up to me so dear,

risking all to be with me!

Might be why you tore loose.

In your eyes, there was no fear;

All risk was yours and I was free.

It was a barbless hook.

Through play and fight, there was always that jeer,

you were so blithe to how you hurt me.

Might be why you tore loose.

You left me alone on that pier;

Heart, soul, hands and basket empty.

It was a barbless hook.

Might be why you tore loose.

—AEW 23/05/2017

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Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #30

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Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

Crossed the street for a cuppa Joe—watered down and strictly coffee in the academic sense because, around here, they seem to think everyone takes it with milk and sugar and will not taste the difference— They will knock it back, finish their sausage roll and flick up their blue collar—“oooh but coffee isn’t tea, is it, duck?”—and light a cigarette.

I smile–chew my gum— muse on mushrooms at breakfast with tinned tomatoes and fried egg vs. long-ago-IHOP days and memory of boysenberry syrup– I see you jogging to the car park– flowers in hand–fumbling for your keys–parking stub between your lips—I check my phone for the time of day and wonder, is it her birthday or your anniversary?

I thought to call your name—thought to catch you up—thought to smile–thought I might forgive you today—if only you would wander into Casey’s for a cup of brew. But I smiled and turned away.

Walking into Casey’s—I ordered a bagel sandwich to go—and my cup of Joe.


Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #14

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Like Proust be an old teahead of time

There had been a general feeling of dreaming in those days. When I think back on those egregiously rambling roads against a deliriously bright backdrop of sand and sky, I cannot bear to think on how bleak I felt then compared to now. To be drenched in the naked flame of a desert sun should have been the evidence to a robust life. The thermals that manifested in the deceptive distance made the climate controlled environment of the Mercedes Benz surreal and inappropriate. The idea that any time spent outside the automobile in the desperate heat would release me to burst into a phoenix was something that seemed enchanted as I reclined against the cool leather interior, doe-eyed and uninterested.

As you drove, determined and resolute to make time, I pondered how aware you were of my reveries for our future. Your mind was always blank when I asked you what you were thinking. I fancied that the only sound you ever heard was the sound of the wheels on your car. I had looked forward to a life of travel and discovery. I saw many lives experienced as a couple with many stories to realise. Life and love would be a succession of road-side attractions and exotic vistas. But your thoughts were more solemn. Your ambitions did not comply with the winding paths and fay-like whims in my head. In the end, you were much engaged elsewhere and I was happy being so very distracted with whatever current endeavours I put my hand to.

Love turned to lovers—lovers turned to memories—time after time and adventure into misadventure—life leads us where it may.
How would I have known that I would have traded it all in for the damp winding roads that penetrate austere forests and bleak glens only to look back winsomely, as if in some kind of nostalgic time-lock? I cannot blame the idiocies of youth for the mindless move, either. Nor can I blame being blind to love’s promise. It was a case of wanderlust, pure and simple. It was the need to be somewhere else that was not known–To find colour after the lack of it–To find darkness after the blinding light then back again. It was the need to cross oceans and traverse the centuries to find adventure and mirth. I learned that the song never really changed; it simply went into key change.

My romance would always be fickle. Your career would always be diabolical. I would always be a chess piece. You would always be as elusive as the thermals on that highway all those years ago. And we would always remain apart.


Kerouac Rules for spontaneous Prose #5

Capture

Something that you feel will find its own form

I–on the passenger side–find myself eagerly stretching my face toward the sun with greed—taking each slice of golden shard that cuts its way through stalwart black clouds—I want warmth. I want mirth. I wanted the summer again. All I can say is that I want.

We three colleagues in a car–driving to an appointment just a bit too far—chatting about this little thing—that little thing—anecdotes of life and people and dogs–making our way through Sutton in Ashfield—making our way through the minutes, hours, day. But my mind wanders away from them–to those days I found myself on this same road–three seasons ago–on the A38 turning onto Coxmoor Road to Eastfield Side before meandering my way to your door—to a threshold filled with “I love you”.

My eye grabs the sight of an amber leaf that lost its grasp from pale branch. It twirls and sweeps up—plunging and twirls and dives–dancing on current before committing itself to what will come— what will come–out of my sight—gone—

Left to wander the streets in my mind–those streets on which I spent so many days and nights navigating my way to you.

But I—on the passenger side—and those days have gone.


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