I have penned more odes to love
than I could ever hope or want to recall.
I have echoed every lovesick swain
who ever sentenced a passion to poesy.
I have written psalms and prayers and praise.
I have word-processed my idylls
and photocopied my confessions.
Like an aging general surveying the course
of his longest campaign,
I have grieved over the naive blunders of my youth,
considered the costly advances, the cavalier abandons,
the seasoned stands against the inevitable,
and learned patience for the long awaited
final engagement.
And now in answer, it seems,
to the psalmster's prayers,
to the young man's laments;
her silver-blue eyes
with their Scandinavian calm
gaze unflinchingly gentle
over the wreckage of my last victorious retreat.
How can I not return the Romantic from his exile;
how can I not grant him yet another indulgence,
how can I not risk being foolish one last time ?
FOOTNOTE
What I remember is buying a blue scarf
and giving it to her for Christmas
and getting nothing in return.
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2 comments:
Like an aging general surveying the course
of his longest campaign,
I have grieved over the naive blunders of my youth
Bittersweet moment. The bi-polarity that you mentioned in my blog...
How can I not return the Romantic from his exile
We all need those moments of madness when we believe anything is possible. The experience of that foolishness is always precious, even if the endeavor itself is fruitless.
Great going Jerry.
Little secret, the aging general metaphor came from War and Peace.
Thanks for commenting.
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