her journal -
I saw her writing in the rain,
Bent to shield the page from wet,
To keep the precious words there set
In ink and time, in flowing rhyme,
All her thoughts would there remain.
In potter's field behind the school,
Her favorite place to muse alone,
To shed dysfunction's veil of home,
To counter-dict her parents, strict,
With pen and prose, the worthy tool.
I stood yet by the wall and waved,
Not wanting to invade her trance,
Or interrupt the fragile dance
Of words divine, and crafted line,
Dreams and notions left unsaved.
I waited, patient, for her eye,
To lift her gaze and see me there,
But she wrote on, still unaware,
And all the while, a gentle smile
Lit up her face with mischief, wry.
I'd known her many years by then,
And knew she wrote of only passion,
No other gist - no other fashion,
Just sexy schemes, and lover's dreams,
Those grand enough to grace her pen.
I watched her as my thoughts began
To spin on what she might be writing,
Romance, talks, our nights - inviting,
Moonlit swims, and tangled limbs,
Perfect passion, our future plans?
Surely, all those things and more,
Brought to words there on her pad,
The priceless moments that we'd had,
Her love for me, in words - set free,
The proof was in the smile she wore.
Oh, how my heart leapt at the thought,
That she there scribbled lines for me,
Romantic dreams of what we'd be,
Or sultry times we'd had, in rhymes,
Now put to words upon that spot.
As I still watched the rain abated,
Sunlight peeping through the clouds,
Day then shedding somber shrouds,
Yet she wrote on, intent upon
Her thoughts there being aptly stated.
She finally finished and lifted pen,
Turned her head and gaze to see
The old stone wall and finally, me,
And in a while, her eyes and smile,
Went blank ... and then came back again ...
I didn't pause to think on this,
So pleased was I to meet her gaze,
To see the sun and feel its rays,
I crossed the lawn, she waved me on,
And greeted me with hug and kiss.
There, in her lips was something cool,
Her eyes, too, held a distant stare,
A spark we'd had, no longer there,
And as I stood, my hands and blood
Went cold ... was I again the fool?
I shook, as if to shed that thought,
As she stepped back to make some space,
Reached up one hand to brush my face,
Looked deep, my eyes, and with a sigh,
Ripped pages from the pad she'd brought.
I reached to part her strands of hair,
She stopped my hand and looked away,
And said "I don't have much to say",
But then did plead for me to read,
The words within her pages there.
"I'm sorry" was her final phrase,
She stood on toes to kiss my cheek,
Her eyes had then commenced to leak,
And she, bereft of words, then left
Me standing stoically in a daze.
What I'd thought prose - her passion's whim,
Was clearly, now read, a long goodbye,
Her heart embraced another guy,
And while she wrote for me, this note,
The smile she'd worn had been for him.
The joy I'd seen wasn't US at all,
Not passion's memoirs, but what might be,
With love's NEW prospect, not with me,
And holding pages, my loser's wages,
The rain, once again ...
Began to fall.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Love For Movie Screens" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 7th Place ~ in the "May Showers" Poetry Contest, Nayda Ivette Negron, Judge & Sponsor.
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