All posts by srwallace

1. Writer 2. Creator 3. Reader 4.Watcher

Luck in Love

Ignatius gnats that
fly never so far away.
The presence overstays,
the annoyance abounds.
Alas am I stuck to
fate noble entwined
the name of mine
to these gnats that fly.

You’ve chosen me
lucky, but luck
rather I’d be
the fate of my loved one
and I instead these
gnats and me.

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1 October 2017

Middle-crossed symphony
agéd watcher, unmusic
undanced though
the talk abounds.

Absent smiling face, even if
he were here
it wouldn’t be grateful fate.

We danced to music this once;
he danced, and my followed eyes,
feet down below shackled to
the mind.

We never danced again,
nor he and me and then alone just me.
In front of mirrors closeted my feet
socked create minimal beat. Song, music
unlike this, repeat and arms flair, doing
justice to my two lame feet.

She in my preferred place.
No musician am I, thus redundant, replaced.
She stares not at my chosen lover’s face
and I wonder why she’s taken my place.

Her fingers do move, but then so do this hand’s
five. Pen is my fiddle, but the bitch
still took my place.

Follies

Follies:

No one and nothing is mine,
and who would want one when
one brings only bad ones? And
who would want nothing when any-
thing is much better?

__________________________________

The touch of familiarity.
The look shared of trusting eye.
He blinks not when he stares:
the same trick from he to me.

If he stares not at me,
then I’ll stare at him. He played
a song for me: well-played.

___________________________________

Who’s the John who looks like
he’s waiting for his Vietnam draft?

___________________________________

All hail the follies, they that all remain!
After all the fires, after all the
too-late rain.

All hail our not-so heavenly
follies that lead the way to
deceit again.

Don’t read over my shoulder, the greedy
reader one. I curse your spirit
and wish you far now roam.

28 August 2017

The two accordions
sound like mice squealing.

Oh so different from last night.
So it is, subdued
demeanour and silence strong.

The men talk to men,
I talk to no one.

My mother on the phone line
telling me her life.
Quiet smile and untalked nods.

The garden needs mowing,
the husband never does.
Quiet disharmony ruining
perfection on this sunny day.

She’s the one to go, I return to my
GMT. This life is a simple one,
if one allows it to be.