The following is for 'M', a person I knew many years ago - a karmic encounter - whose favourite sport was lying.  Everyone knew it and eventually I too - but then, he was so entertaining! 

Tell Me More

Enchant me with your lies,

for I know it is so,

(That, you cannot deny!)

they are, well...so entertaining!

Those who lie,

have trouble believing . . .

What a price to pay

for so clumsily deceiving!

Hush now, it’s not important.

(Why are YOU so upset?)

Oh, do tell me more,

You know how I love it!

Come, come now, don’t play the peeved!

For a little while,

until you leave

let’s pretend and enjoy our touches.

Those charming lies,

Oh do tell me more!

Amuse me with your wiles.

Be today, especially lavish.

“...can’t live without you. You’re the one I adore,

 I’ll love you forever,” etc. etc.

...oh yes, tell me more!

My dear, my fav’rite habit.

Second Thoughts

Believe not my resistance

a time honoured and divised ploy.

Believe not your insistence

is desired and my game coy.

What was interest most honest

when at first we met,

was of the subject most sonnets

so favoured, are to music set.

I returned what had drawn me

in your eyes so reflected.

But time soon proved, that hardly I

knew you yet felt neglected.

Now closed are the gates to my trust,

my openness and willingness.

Wiser, my heart gathers dust.

I am amused at my silliness.

Within those gates I shall ponder,

your gallant attempts anew

to coax my reserve asunder,

my waning interest renew.

Believe not over confidence

tho proven victorious in your past

will another win become immanent,

your efforts a fruitful and light task.

I shall recall what could have been

for savoury it was, that emotion.

But sensibility, you are my haven.

This, my retreat is my caution.

Silent Conversations

Silent conversations again

o’er a glass of wine...

or three.

Where are you?

Are you far away?

Do you often think of me?

Uncertainty,

you miserable thing

you leave me never once.

Questions there are

and answers none,

so I fill another glass.

If only I could send you thoughts,

my feelings or my fears...

you’d see.

But then perhaps

it's best to hide,

another side of me.

For now at least,

the time’s not right...

feelings are hard to explain.

Those spoken words

by way of phone,

are just not quite the same.

It’s been too long…

well, months in fact.

Maddening, I confide.

I need you here,

to read your eyes...

feel what’s hidden inside.

I wonder if you do the same...

talk to a glass of wine?

Do you wonder how I’m doing?

. . .wonder if I’m fine?

No choice at all

but to keep at heart,

thoughts denied a voice.

Silent conversations again,

a glass of wine...

no thee.

A toast to you,

wherever you are,

may you be thinking of me.

The original of this poem is on the Private Exercise page.

Pillow

How can one please the unwilling heart  

that finds no peace at another's hearth?  

Never neared nor trusted new fire,

yet ever regretful, poor lonely fool. 

Oh, how to ease the failing faint heart,

that yearns to slip to dreams afar?

Whither weeps the wearied wet eyes

of softly lamenting sad little soul? 

None better knows than comforting pillow,

there sleeps restless burdened sorrow, 

there spills tears in silence gathered 

of softly lamenting sad little soul. 

This was originally what I called a poetic essay.  On advice, I have used stanzas and I am supposed to call it free verse now. ('Oma' is German for Gran or Granny.)  A friend reminded me of what I have suggested to others in the past... to consider splitting this into Part I and Part II.  A good point, and I am mulling it over or have and a version is at the end of this.  Feedback is always welcome.

Stanza 5 used to read 'Horrible, inferior food'...I felt the rhyme resulting from the close proximity of childhood that hints at sight rhyme as well as closeness of pronunciation to 'too' and later 'gloom' was distracting and so changed it.  Also, it occurred to me that it could indicate what I thought of Polish food in general - which is not true.

I know so much. . .

If love is about that

buoyant, exhilarating thrill,

then I recall it well.

If it is bitter-sweet

like my Aunt’s favourite chocolate,

then I’ve had my share of it.

It is not an enjoyable flavour,

yet I know it well.

If it is sweet,

yet exquisitely balanced

like the Belgian sort I savour,

well, how well I know

it is not easy to find.

If it is that awful Polish kind

I remember from childhood

and visits to Oma’s friends

then I know that too.

Horrible and inferior,

but enough of taste buds.

If love is that sinking feeling

when the time for its visit is over,

then, ah yes,

it is painfully fleeting.

And yes, I know that gloom.

If it is the kind made complicated

 by money, its lack or excess,

I know one side of that coin,

the other is called confusion.

Makes one wonder.

Love of what or whom.

Also a familiar test.

I know so much about

the kaleidoscope called love,

yet I must be missing something,

my senses say so.

Oh yes, another one,

If love is that self sacrificing stuff…

the kind that leaves you

drained and the receiver filled,

the kind that women are expected to do

because, supposedly, that is what

‘true love’ is about,

Well, I had more than a bit of it

in earlier years.

I never favoured patriarchal views.

I know so much.

Why do I feel so love illiterate?

I know so much.

My experiences filled me.

Why do I feel so depleted?

Ah, but silly me,

now I expect give and take

my sense of fairness again

This complicates

The matter of love

 is also about the frustration

of being loved and expected

to love back…

simply because a heart

has been laid at my feet?

Well, then I suppose I am guilty

of breaking a few.

I remember that pain,

because it did, deeply.

Hearts are like glass,

they shatter so easily.

Unintentionally, 

I’ve been the bull

in that closet too.

I know too much.

A little less

 experience

would have

done me well.

_{_________________}

I did decide, after all to split this poem after a little more minor revision.

I know so much. . .

If love is about that

buoyant, exhilarating thrill,

then I recall it well.

If it is bitter-sweet

like my Aunt’s favourite chocolate,

then I’ve had my share of it.

It is not an enjoyable flavour,

yet I know it well.

If it is sweet,

yet exquisitely balanced

like the Belgian sort I savour,

well, how well I know

it is not easy to find.

If it is that awful Polish kind

I remember from childhood

and visits to Oma’s friends

then I know that too.

Horrible and inferior,

but enough of taste buds.

If love is that sinking feeling

when the time for its visit is over,

then, ah yes,

it is painfully fleeting.

And yes, I know that gloom.

If it is the kind made complicated

 by money, its lack or excess,

I know one side of that coin,

the other is called confusion.

Makes one wonder.

Love of what or whom.

Also a familiar test.

I know so much about

the kaleidoscope called love,

yet I must be missing something,

my senses say so.

I know . . . (Part II)

If love is that self sacrificing stuff…

the kind that leaves you

drained and the receiver filled,

the kind that women are expected to do

because, supposedly, that is what

‘true love’ is about,

Well, I had more than a bit of it

in earlier years.

I never favoured patriarchal views.

Makes one wonder.

'Love' one always has to 'prove'.

Also a familiar test.

I know so much.

Why do I feel so love illiterate?

I know so much.

My experiences filled me.

Why do I feel so depleted?

Ah, but silly me,

now I expect give and take

my sense of fairness again

This complicates

the matter of love

 is also about the frustration

of being loved and expected

to love back…

simply because a heart

has been laid at my feet?

Well, then I suppose I am guilty

of breaking a few.

I remember that pain,

because it did, deeply.

Hearts are like glass,

they shatter so easily.

Unintentionally, 

I’ve been the bull

in that closet too.

I know too much.

A little less

 experience

would have

done me well.

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