Earlier today, I published a poem and at the end, left a pile of unused words that were free for the taking. Christine Goodnough rifled through them and came up with this poem, then left a free-for-the-taking list of unused words of her own, leaving a link to my refuse pile as well. I have dipped into each bunch of words again and used them all in the below poem, with the exception of the few left at the end that I pass on to any reader willing to make use of them in a poem. You’ll find our combined leftovers at the end of my poem and a link to to Christine’s poem above
Craig’s List Confessional
I’d like a mirror so I can see
if I display felicity
when someone whispers in my ear
the name of one I once held dear.
I know not what my heart may feel,
what passions I might dare repeal
now that my head is ruling me
instead of love for somebody
so long departed––no longer here
for so many a long-lost year.
If I could paint a picture of
the countenance of long-lost love
in monotone or multi-tones,
in stereo or monophones,
I hesitate to admit that
I fear the portrait might fall flat.
How often it has been my ploy
to act withdrawn or bored or coy,
as though the long-lapsed love I bore
is what steers my grieving core.
But, in truth, duplicity
is what in all simplicity
guides my actions and my thought
and turns me into love’s robot.
With paint cans colored various hues,
why do I always choose the blues,
rebuffing each potential woo
and dropping out of courtship’s queue?
And so, if love is not a ruse––
a mere excuse for whom to choose,
I stand here gawking, open wide,
with no place left in which to hide.
and pride too dear a price to pay;
for staying safe in grief’s tight room
is burial before the tomb.
And so my dear, this poem you view?
Pretend that it’s addressed to you
and join me in complicity.
Perhaps shared words can set us free.
I’m not a girl. You are no boy.
This poem is not a word-stuffed toy.
Should you respond with words that match,
it’s possible that we will catch
another chance to reach and choose
and maybe this time we won’t lose
the golden ring that does not bind.
This time we may find love is kind!
Okay, I dug deeply into Christine’s leftovers and rifled through mine as well. This is what is left in the poetic grab bag. Can anyone make use of the rest of our cast-offs? Here is what is left to you:
ooze booze cruise who’s whose choose lose news pews poos cues sues twos woos youse
doozie floozie twozie boo goo hue loo moo new poo sue soo sioux too to you What a spectacle! not respectable