As I wrote in yesterday’s blog, I am, little by little, going to carve from my autobiography, bits of me in poetry. Without explanation, I leave you with. . .
If I, in my old age should be
lost in pleasant reverie,
please don’t ask of me
why I sometimes concentrate
on things you cannot see.
I may see a flight of steps without a door.
I may be waiting, as I waited years before,
for the moment he comes into view.
Should I muse the way that women do
when remembering past happiness,
I’ll be recalling a sweet memory
and should I smile if I recall
the way his eyes met mine so long ago,
silently expressing as plain as it could be
a love that others must not see,
I’ll be remembering;
I was as dear to him as he to me.
My hands, my strength, in spite of tears,
I gave my best throughout the years
to duty, but I set apart
within divisions of my heart
love for another and therein,
dared what gods may rule above
to call salvation, profane sin.
However brief the rose’s bloom,
if pressed within a book’s dark womb
it still retains its sweet perfume.
If someday, in reverie,
I should recall his memory
and pause to stare at a door that isn’t there,
I’ll be hearing what you cannot hear—
his footsteps on the stair.
Gorgeous, Mary. It is lovely.
Beautiful words and at the same time defiant. There is no need of convoluted explanations for life… but it does make great poetry.
Thanks for being a repeat visitor. I usually post once or twice a week and swing by when I can.
Rose
xo
Rose, welcome to my site. You, too, Writerlu, but since this is Rose’s first visit, and you’re a regular, let us both welcome her. I’ll be back with you both. Soon.
this was lovely mary.. for me it was full of longing and unrequited love… i have had a very full life,, i have pursued loves i probably shouldn’t have… and even tho i ended up alone,,, i am not farther behind in that department than the “dutiful” “faithful” ones am i??????
“However brief the rose’s bloom,
if pressed within a book’s dark womb
it still retains its sweet perfume.”
Wow! That’s a top-rate poem, mary a. kaufman. You wouldn’t be laughed out of any competition with that one.
Jacques, Now that just about as high a bit of praise I ever hope to hear. I was not kidding when I wrote in one poem, ‘today, my poems are blase’. Fortunately, I don’t write poetry in hopes of winning awards. I write for the pleasure of the writing.
Welcome, Rose.