Friday, November 16, 2018

Heaven's Gate and Unrequited Delivery

"Heaven's Gate" 

Circumstances on God's green
Earth have conspired against Us,
kept what essentially amounts 
to millions of miles between Us.
Since I have every intention
of shuffling off this mortal
Merry-go-round before you,
I promise to stay at Heaven's
pearly gate, holding my breath,
patiently awaiting your arrival.
Separately, we came together.
Everything denied us on Earth,
we shall experience in Heaven.
I hope they have sound-proof
boudoirs, special rubber rooms.
If there is no bench to wile away
the many long years you continue
to live a life, fulfilled, I will perch
myself on a convenient tree limb.
Time is what we make of it there,
so while you may feel the passage
excruciating, it's the blink of an eye.
My love, see you on the other side!


"Unrequited Delivery"

I have cradled my heart,
and silenced my tongue,
longer than reason dictates.
But, rumor does have it
that shouting messages
of import from the rooftops
is a most effective conduit.
Dutifully, I fetch myself the ladder.
I posit it on uneven, gravelly ground.
I approach the rungs with trepidation,
hesitation, begin my cautious ascent.
Vertigo & nerves are never suitable
partners when progressing skyward.
The terracotta roof tiles
are icy cold on my bare feet,
but I clamber up to the ridgeline,
and I hug the chimney dearly,
as if it is my lover's surrogate.
And, from my perched vantage,
I envision this message of import
as it falls softly, but audibly upon
the hurried, busying audience below.
Finally, the visible tension
upon my visage evaporates,
as I work up the nerve
to loosen my lips enough
to take that long, slow draw
of air, the deepest of breaths.
A preparation, in anticipation,
of a forward-looking motion;
ah, the expulsion of speech.
But, words escape as a whisper.
Without either form or function
to propel the message of import
on its precise formulated trajectory,
it falls short of its intended target,
& tumbles embarrassingly HARD
onto the terracotta shingles below.
It shatters, but not at all like glass.
The individual letters each unravel.
And, gravity draws them like marbles,
scattering them along the clay channels,
spilling toward the eaves, the precipice.
But, I am gripped by fear, and frozen.
And, I cannot release my proxy lover!
This rooftop, on this particular day,
with the unwitting witnesses below,
will no longer serve its intended purpose.
And, so the message of import remains,
for the nonce and the indefinite future,
safely secure in the dead letter office.


Anne is happily retired, living in a quiet New England village, in the rural northeastern US. She has had a lifelong love affair with the English language, using every possible opportunity to embrace it and expand her vocabulary. While she studied many disciplines over the years, she only really gave over any space in her brain to linguistics. And, she has always been much more at ease with the written, as opposed to the spoken word, so writing became an outlet, a comfortable niche, at a very young age. After a painfully long hiatus, she is writing feverishly again, with hopes of publishing a book of poetry sometime in the near future. You can follow Anne's poetry blog, 360° Poetry, on Facebook at... 

360 degree poetry