Eyes moisten with no reason
I lived a life
and failed to see it pass
leaving cold memories
of heated thighs
badly remembered
The clutching arms and lips
Always once more
desperately seeking
a purpose until
there wasn’t
and isn’t.
Tears falling with reason
JEMcL Jan 2020
Ærchie’s Archive | türk sohbet on Viagra in the Nursing Hom… |
 | Fiona on Prime Invertebrate |
| Vicki Parslow Staffo… on Have We Found Bruce Lehrm… | |
 | Michael sutton on The Public Life of Scott … |
 | Janice Green on The Public Life of Scott … |
 | vallerian20001 on I’LL TAKE MY VACCINE,… |
 | Urinoff Jacob on About Pirates |
 | cuptips on Dr Seuss: Scomo in a Hat |
 | che Babaluaye on Winning Elections |
 | archiearchive on John Howard and Family Va… |
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.
LikeLike
One of several sonnets I committed to heart in my early teens. Still true, 50 years later.
LikeLike
Thank you for your visit, Fiona. I was unsure of posting this as it was writing in the midst of a melancholia. I have loved the work of the Bard all my life yet I cannot reach his truths. (I also can never remember poetry by rote – except for the scurrilous limericks I scribble)
LikeLike
As we age, as we all age, let us never forget the bard’s advice:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.
LikeLike