because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

the last rhetorical question

snow in richmond, angled.

where do we dream,
now? i ask, remembering
monday afternoons
that could run through our fingers
like the juice from an overripe

plum. the snow this year
wasn’t as wonder-sunk as the last.
you didn’t dress me up and say
let’s make the most of this.
no, we sat with our backs

to a bar and watched the
flakes fall until they
didn’t. like a disconnect. suddenly
i feel i am stop-gap, filling-
in, badly wrapped

arm-candy. like winter-grass,
pale and limp and persistent.
like the snow that cries, fading.
so i do my dying during
daylight hours, afraid

the neighbors will hear,
call the cops, take
the cat, run. somehow i
am, still; embittered
& embroidered and melting

in what was. you are trim &
full up with prospects & when
you say let’s make the most
of this, it doesn’t sound
the same at all, at all.

28 responses

  1. like winter-grass,
    pale and limp and persistent.

    great simile/imagery

    March 4, 2013 at 1:26 pm

  2. So sad.

    suddenly
    i feel i am stop-gap, filling-
    in, badly wrapped

    arm-candy.

    March 4, 2013 at 3:03 pm

    • a bit, yeah. 🙂 thanks for stopping by, Denise.

      March 5, 2013 at 11:43 am

  3. This was fantastic. I love how the tone begins as forlorn and wistful, but spirals into desperation as the poem continues. Your use of language is playful, and there is a delightfully surprising turn-of-phrase or image on every line. Just beautiful… and so very sad. Thank you for the fantastic read!

    March 4, 2013 at 4:55 pm

    • Thank you so much, Ursa!

      March 5, 2013 at 11:53 am

  4. i find the sadness in the words that once meant one thing no longer having the same feel…and instead of wrapping you up and saying it…standing backs to the bar…the feeling of being the stop gap…the filling in…is no fun either….

    March 4, 2013 at 9:20 pm

    • hey, b! thanks for stopping by and empathizing. *smiles*

      March 5, 2013 at 4:10 pm

  5. This took my breath away. Just fantastic.

    March 5, 2013 at 1:59 am

    • wow. *blushes* thanks!

      March 5, 2013 at 4:15 pm

  6. the turn of the phrase, let’s make the most of this, from one context to another is a gut-punch.

    March 5, 2013 at 12:27 pm

    • thanks, Ray. gut-punch is about what i was going for…

      March 5, 2013 at 4:17 pm

  7. This is great for me because you captured my very short-lived first marriage. Even though I kept trying to rekindle the magic, all my words fell hollow once she decided to default out of the marriage. Here are my favorite moments (from your poem, not my first-marriage) :

    “monday afternoons
    that could run through our fingers
    like the juice from an overripe

    plum.”

    ” we sat with our backs

    to a bar and watched the
    flakes fall until they
    didn’t. like a disconnect.”

    ” like winter-grass,
    pale and limp and persistent.”

    “when
    you say let’s make the most
    of this, it doesn’t sound
    the same at all, at all.”

    OK, so I cited most of the poem – does that tell you how much I loved this? Please please please if this is autobiographical, get out your scalpel, take a big swig of something strong, and cut that tumor out, once and for all! As much I love your pained, tortured love poetry, I want you to start writing about a new place in your world, where passion, connection and the gaze of adoring eyes have surprised the hell out of you. – Mosk

    ps – of course plums drip, but only the sweetest and most ripe.

    March 5, 2013 at 12:58 pm

    • point taken, my good friend. it does seem i was a lot happier when i was writing about lust…
      thanks, in seriousness, Mosk.

      March 5, 2013 at 4:21 pm

  8. This is fantastic! And deeply sad. These lines caught in my throat,

    “suddenly
    i feel i am stop-gap, filling-
    in, badly wrapped

    arm-candy.”

    A brilliant, tragic, and to use Ray’s words, “gut-punch” image.

    March 5, 2013 at 4:46 pm

    • thank you, Cindee. those lines were the heart of the poem for me.

      March 5, 2013 at 5:06 pm

  9. I’m not usually a fan of this style of free form poetry, but once I had started I decided I had to read to the end, give it a chance. I’m glad I did. I love the ending. Peace, Linda

    March 5, 2013 at 5:17 pm

  10. Deeply sad and moving..another great write, Joanna.

    March 5, 2013 at 7:05 pm

    • thanks, ayala. 🙂

      March 6, 2013 at 11:01 am

  11. A two-way street… with only on-coming traffic…

    March 6, 2013 at 8:54 am

    • sometimes it feels that way, Stan.

      March 6, 2013 at 11:05 am

  12. So it is asked in the winter season, the season knows despair.

    Perhaps you would have been pleased had you not had this to write about, the irony . . . it is so well written, poignantly expressed.

    I pray you soon know the summer and we know your expressions, the heart notes spring of it.

    Cheers!

    March 6, 2013 at 12:15 pm

    • Thank you, Jeff. for your words and the sentiment behind them.

      March 6, 2013 at 3:19 pm

  13. Wonderful piece!

    March 8, 2013 at 2:24 pm

  14. I love the leap from plum to snow. The last line gave me a shiver, so you did your job well.

    March 8, 2013 at 5:27 pm

  15. That is beautiful. Loved the images, very poignant and compelling at the same time. Thanks.

    March 9, 2013 at 1:35 am

  16. Pingback: For my friend LadyNimue | Life between the lines

Thoughts?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s