A Better Perfection?

What was I thinking?

If I was thinking at all,

Lacking commitment, no precious passion-metal

In this fifty-winters relationship today, nor, indeed,

For some months gone: only mere disdainful disinterest,

Denial: surely the most cowardly forms of betrayal.

No fire in the blood, no iron in the rod

Where love and faith once fitted, fuelled and fulfilled.

Another week’s dull grey rains gone

Under the honest, Bedlam song bridges;

Why was I waiting, pretending indifference?

And for what?

For the gallows shadow birds to find

Paradise-bell voices, describe a better perfection?

For the right cards, for a signal in smoke or stars?

What was I thinking?

To Dance With Clowns

“Strange,” he thinks, quietly to himself,

Climbing the suddenly-too-steep staircase,

“Strange how the world turns

Around a moment in a relationship” :

For earlier, he watched love shade

Change to pity then full-blast ranting hatred.

“Strange, ” he cannot stop thinking now

That he’s started …

“The world is turning around this latest demand”.

He means the single white pill, so tinily perfect –

Balanced like an equation-to-be

In the bowl of a silver spoon.

Reflections come, twist, haunt  and pass on.

Quiet desert fire isolation,

Wild, decibel-loaded parties,

Southern belt skies, dreams of

Oaks and queens and

Better-when bad princesses,

White bannisters, warm apples,

Good company on journeys-far-from home.

Reaching the familiar-for-once carpeted landing

He pauses to rescue a breath, reminds himself:

“Those who choose to dance with clowns

Would do well to remember how quickly,

How well, how completely they recover from falls.”

 

7/4/2013