Is It March Yet?

Way back in January, I decided that I would write about love every day in February. I thought it would be easy. When looking through the poems I had written over the years, it seemed that love was a dominant theme in so many of them. Looking at them now, I don’t know what I was thinking.

Part of the problem is that the tone is often so dark. I write about love lost and destroyed or never found. February doesn’t have to be all flowers and red hearts, but it shouldn’t be a blood-bath either.

I whined to my husband:
“There’s an undercurrent of darkness in so many of my poems about love.”
“No, really?”

That’s all it took though, just a gentle reminder that, yes, that darkness in me that sucked up love before I could feel it might just be present in my writing. That even when I wasn’t writing about myself, those feelings were in there.

He told me he was glad I was blogging like this, writing about the poems, telling their stories. For years he’s suffered my enthusiasm about these pieces, being met after a long day at work by me thrusting some poem under his nose, insisting he read it while I bounced impatiently at his side, waiting for him to feel exactly what I felt about it.
“Look what I wrote! Isn’t it fun? Isn’t it awesome?”

He probably wanted to say, “No. No, it’s not. It’s sad, it’s depressing. It frightens me.”

But he didn’t. He’d make some noncommittal remark, the equivalent of patting me on the head, hoping I wasn’t about to snap. “Nice, Poet. Good, Poet. Down girl.”

The other night, when he was telling me how happy he is about my blog, he confessed, “I can’t abide unmitigated poetry.”

His saying that made me laugh. That kind of honesty is real love. He didn’t say, “your unmitigated poetry,” but I think that’s what he meant. I can’t say I blame him.

I saw him for a moment,
Brief flash of curling hair
Swept by a crowdwave out of reach.

Unseen, I followed,
A voyeur–
Not so base,
An explorer–
Seeking new worlds of
Far from crowded beach
And tourists’ stares,
The best being bought
By the ones with most credit,
Banking on clear skin
And tight jeans.
Adding to collections,
Snapping up bargains.

Propelled by desperation.
Close in his wake,
Tossed by turbulent swells.
Praying a haven, waiting anchored
By his side.
In him a harbor,
Sheltering and safe
From jealous gales
Threatening to drown
All hope,
And tear from calloused hands
A love grasped late.