This poem is pretty silly, but I like the challenge of using only one rhyme for an entire poem. More of a puzzle than anything else.
Lucky at Languages, Unlucky at Love
The night was warm and balmy and he was a man in uniform. She was adept at languages from French to Greek to Cuneiform. They met one balmy evening on the Eiffel Tower. He aided her in climbing, then offered her a flower. She thanked him first in French and when it drew a puzzled glance, she surmised he must be from a place other than France. She tried again in English, in Spanish and in Greek. She would have tried her Chinese, but her Mandarin was weak. She pointed to his medals, his ribbons and his bars— all his decorations. She counted all his stars, but could not find the language to express admiration. And thus the evening ended, I fear in consternation. The moral of the story? Put your horse before the cart. It’s best to know love’s language before you give your heart.
The prompts today were uniform and balmy. Here are the links:
I wish I’d set the truth aside. I wish instead that I had lied when you asked the reason why I didn’t choose the other guy. I wish I’d said you’d won my heart quickly, from the very start.
But, alas, I told the truth. Blame it on my careless youth. It was, perhaps, naïveté that made me answer you that way. I said you were my second choice, then heard that quaver in your voice.
For all those years forever after, I’ve recalled your bitter laughter as you said you guessed you’d wait for the type of girl who’d rate you first when making her selection, and thus began your swift defection.
After all these years, I’ll tell
that I remember very well
regrets I suffered at your leaving—
all those nights of futile grieving.
Watching as you met your wife,
had your kids and built your life.
Every few years at class reunions
as we all share our fond communions,
I’ll catch your eye and feel the spark
that goes unnoticed in the dark.
And every day, until I die,
I’ll wish I’d told that little lie.
Although he was the man for her—the one that she adored, there was a loophole in their love affair, a clause in their accord. So while into their union all her energies she poured, feathering her true love’s nest, he wandered and explored.
She scraped windows with razor blades and scoured the kitchen floor as he was off adventuring, in search of fresh amor. It seemed for him their love affair was simply a temporal exercise of pleasure genitalial and clitoral.
So as she labored, scrubbing at their tabletops and flooring, he was engaged in other tasks of nightclubbing and whoring. Their end was as you might predict. Her life became a bore, so she exercised her loophole and threw him out the door!
“Violets contain ionone, which short-circuits our sense of smell. The flower continues to exude its fragrance, but we lose the ability to smell it. Wait a minute or two, and its smell will blare again. Then it will fade again, and so on.” — Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses
“Violets” jdb photo 2017
Saying It with Flowers
A lovely gesture, the violets—
but their scent vanished
before you walked out the door.
“It will come back,” you promised.
And so it did, that sweet aroma,
radiating from the deep heart of the flowers
for brief moments before
coming and going with a greater regularity
than your coming and your going.
“There is a scientific cause for this,” you noted, ” The fragrance is still there,
but we just lose our ability to smell it. It will come back again.” And you were right. I could count upon it’s reappearance— the mystery of its coming and its going solved, unlike your final exit or why, when I requested forget me nots, violets are what you gave.
Two things of value that are fleeting–– life and love both set hearts beating. Both sadly lost by types of cheating: one by libido overheating, the other just by unwise eating. Once over, though, both bear repeating.