The Bishop and the Butterfly: Murder, Politics, and the End of the Jazz Age

Heartless Poet

 

He wanted one poem to plop down in his lap,

Contented and revealing within the first draft;

It's phrases weaned...lines well proportioned,

.....a poem like that seldom walks in the door.

 

We need to talk. she said.

Odd timing, he said, I'm writing.

No, I mean it, she said.

O.K., just a minute,

    .. a wildflower steals under yon fence row,

     poignant, the shy hues of parting glances,

Is your heart in this? she asked.

Hang on,

     hints of pale yellows...and savvy magenta,

I thought so, she said,

and walked out.

     ...its doleful, soulful...

Damn, I lost it. he said.

Comments

Lol, Barefooted.  Perfect!.  (I've almost been there.  I'll leave it at that.)

I meant Oxy Mora.  Sorry!  Jeez. . .

 

 


But, but, I had my shoes on.


This is really, really good, Oxy. Makes me wish I had written it.

I don't think he's a "heartless poet", though. Timing really is everything. You've captured that sentiment beautifully ... both in the writer's creative, all-consuming quest, and his lover's plea. Both require singular attention and cannot coexist. Well done!


Mad at myself about the mixup, but I love this comment, too.  So there.


Ramona, I love all your comments. smiley


Thanks, barefooted. Appreciate the comments.


Nice poem, barefoot ... err Oxy!

 

A heartless poet

needs to have a strong liver

to feel his way through.


A heartless poet

Has no rhythm at all when

A dream girl walks in.

 


Good one!
 

 


A heartless poet

doesn't recognize his dream

when she dances in.


Ah, yes. Yes.


A heartless poet

won't recognize his dream till

she provides a beat.


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