lyrics and poems for songs unsung
How easy to fall for
the nibbling of a cuticle
under a brow furrowed in consternation relaxing
into a whisper
“it’s okay, you’re alright”
breaking into a smile
mocking all propriety
On the other side
I sit with you–watching other lives–waiting
for confirmation
I should rise up–flee dancing–to my doom
He sighs
big heavy thoughts
of granite importance
Necks crane, seats shuffle
in a ripple of replies
I scribble my mine
in hieroglyphs so cryptic
they barely make sense
Having failed to convince
I slink into subterfuge
fixing anything that will
stand out to be fixed
The heat releases the stink
of years of mulling
rising from the carpet in constellations of dust
like fatal flaws drawn out
to be caught in the slab of light
Out there, hope unfurls
like a leaf in the spring sun
laying itself out for no one
but the sky above
Mired by foresight
I once admired
I am not inspired to raise
my voice above the din
if to be let in only
to give weight and body
to yet another tide
that will recede and reveal
nothing that wasn’t
already cast aside
Longing to spring forward,
we met with questions
ricocheting faster than
we could avert our eyes
from half-formed replies
and the glint of all
that survived winter
We kissed cheek to cheek
with the hesitancy of those
awaiting touch
to ignite sparks of pain
We parted with an hour lost
and nothing changed
I wanted words to matter
But all I did was chatter
And swear to change
So quickly, I fall back
into bad habits
Pulling pinned thoughts
out of my heart
I throw them like darts
at blind targets
For a moment I lose
sight of what is likely,
and imagine
you surprising me
at the arrival gate
But I know better than
to expect of others, what
I wouldn’t hesitate to do
Still, I would be ready,
I am always ready
Except for the end
Renovations are fully underway,
Buldosers, shovels,
boards and trenches splayed
with no hint of design
I look for metaphors
to turn ruin
to revelation
But see the debris,
of the house torn down
upon which ours was built
Wires, broken bricks and tiles
jutting out of clumped mud
As winter whispers
of sink holes
and fresh starts,
elsewhere, away
Not much happened today
The leaves hung listless, tiring of green
The jogger tripped into to a walk
The man loaded his bike into the car
The dog gave in to the tugging of his leash
Notices blipped events to be seen
The sun dipped behind buildings in dismay
And the day ended
Somewhere out there
a butterfly sits
with its wings unfurling
a spit of chance
into a whimsical wind
to upset the seasons
and disperse those reasons
intent on convincing us
to keep giving in
We mull and measure
and find the right
treasured sofa
for the compromised space
we’ve made home
And pretend we intend
to spend endless moments
extended in perfect repose
Let us debate
the virtues of viscose
and all the hues hidden
in grey and taupe
overlooking innuendos
embedded in safe choices
while reproaches
of indifference
fly about unnoticed
We go back and forth
options imploding,
until flipping a coin will do
Resenting the magnitude
of meaning
this decision implies
or the hunger
for something else rising,
sets our hearts quaking,
our doubts chiming
for a change greater
than the shade
of our backdrop
can fake or construe
With the stakes piling high
we can only sigh
and resign ourselves
to that dusky blue
I saw you on the sidewalk – up ahead – and froze in disbelief. But there you were – waiting for the light to change – just like the last time – but elsewhere.
I picked up speed – hating the noisy heels I wore -_ wanting to sneak a closer look – before you saw me – before I grabbed my chance.
You were exactly the same – same hedgehog hair – same slouch – same disheveled clothes – hands punching your pockets.
A greeting gurgled in my throat as I caught up to you.
You turned my way – looked past – at the traffic – past – 25 years since you last looked – like this – stranger – crossing the street – away from me.
Now I know all
I can buy is the chance
to bide my time
snapping my fingers
to the groove
of tired 60s classics
boxed into forced
upbeat rhythms
that only show their age
like yellow light
on grey skin
and that I’m bound
to someone rich enough
to not have to count
the drinks of gin
or keep tabs on the tab
or care that the jabs
in my ribs
may be signs
that the good times
won’t have to be cherished
much longer
and that sly grins
can stretch to grimaces
before promises unkept
as women raging
against aging
between the pages
framing ads
that promise only
to fool me again
into thinking this
may yet not be
the best version of me
who would want to dream
on a day like this
made for pondering
waste and decay
rather than possibilities
who would dare partake
in the birth of ideas
and formulate plans
when the rain is relentless
and the hours drain
in endless gradients of grey
where slumber is
the only ray of light
pointing the way to tomorrow
jotNrot 
You must be logged in to post a comment.