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Half  awake, I was imagining

a friend’s young lover, her ash blonde hair, the smooth

taut skin of  twenty. I imagined her

short legs and dimpled knees.

                                                                                     The door scraped open,

but eyes closed, I saw nothing. The mattress sagged.

She laid her head on my chest, and murmured love

against my throat, almost humming, approaching song,

so palpable I could hold her only chastely,

if  this was chaste. I couldn’t move my hand

even to caress her freckled shoulder.

So this is how imagination works, I thought,

sadly. And when at last she spoke,

she spoke with the amused voice of my wife,

my wife who was at work but also here,

pleased at the confusion she was causing.

This is a lesson about flesh, isn’t it?

I asked. Blowfly, she whispered on my throat

as we made tense, pensive love. Blowfly, blowfly.

Wearing a tawny lion pelt upon   

My spindly shoulders I carry both of them,   

My father and my mother, into the darkness,   

My father hoarsely singing, “They are there!”   

—The glimmer of something that is glimmering there—   

“I see the glow of weapons in the shadows!”   

Through which with my purblind eyes I think I see   

Something in the darkness waiting there.   

Above me in the dark my mother’s voice   

Calls down to me, “Who’s there? Who is it there?”   

Step after step together we make our way,   

In the darkness of my memory of our house.

Shattered glass in the street at Maryland and 10th:

smashed sand glittering on a beach of black asphalt.

You can think of it so: or as bits of broken kaleidoscope,

or as crystals spilled from the white throat of a geode.

You can use metaphor to move the glass as far as possible

from the raised hands that threw the bottle

for their own reasons of amusement, or despair, or the desire

to make a cymbal crash in the ears of midnight sleepers.

Or you can use words like your needle, the probe curious

in tough heels, your bare feet having walked in risky places.

You can work to the surface the irritant, pain, the glass

sliver to blink in the light, sharp as a question.

The birds have vanished down the sky.

Now the last cloud drains away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,

until only the mountain remains.

I was trying to love matter.

I taped a sign over the mirror:

You cannot hate matter and love form.

It was a beautiful day, though cold.

This was, for me, an extravagantly emotional gesture.

.......your poem:

tried, but could not.

I taped a sign over the first sign:

Cry, weep, thrash yourself, rend your garments—

List of things to love:

dirt, food, shells, human hair.

....... said

tasteless excess. Then I

rent the signs.

AIAIAIAI cried

the naked mirror.

Welcome to FreePoetryOnline.com 

Without You
By David Wilding

I had a good time tonight
It could have been with you
It should have been with you
But you weren't here

What did you do tonight?
Did you stay in?
Did you fight with your mother (again)?
Did you go out?
I thought of you tonight

It's not so easy
Being with you
Being without you
I can't be either just now
But 'without' is how it shall be

For I can't forget
This time last week
What you did
What you said
What you thought
The memory is so bitter of you

I enjoyed tonight without you
Yes I did
It was possible
And I did it
And I know I can do it again
And I can get over you

They asked me about next year
And I told them
And I said, "Don't be so sure"
That's the way it is for me
To be without you
There is nothing here

What can you do for me?
I think nothing now
I see nothing now
I don't want anything now
From you

It feels good
I can have socks with holes
I can do what I want
I can be myself
And you can't complain
About anything

I thought of that song today
"Something Happened On The Way To Heaven"
And it did
And it has
And it's done
So what now?

Am I in Hell?
Because of this
Because of you
And all you said
I think not
But it's close


About the Author:
A rather sad poem from about 1997 when I WAS alone at home thinking of the good and bad things about the break-up (but not for long!) from my girlfriend at that time.

David Wilding is an inspired part-time poet who works on inspiration-from-life terms only. He has been writing on and off for the last ten years now - maybe more but only since about 1996 has he put it down on paper (and online). He is also the owner, webmaster and grand overseer of this and many other websites (NOT all poetry-related!).

This poem, and others like it are strictly Copyright  © 2009  David Wilding and may NOT be reprinted in ANY WAY without permission from the author.