The Best Part of my Life
[A love poem; for Rosa] I shall lay deep beneath the gravel earth
And wait, like a ghoul on a moonlit night, While you rest beside the fire’s heat, grey,
My love, wife, my life, does not forget me;
Ah, love me dear! Happy we shall be yet, Flying somewhere within the Universe. #735 6/22/05 Comments by the Author: “Here is a very, very short love poem. I haven’t wrote many love poems per se, or short stories, directly on love without a twist, or novels, not sure why, perhaps the fire inside of me wants to leave that part alone; spin it out in secret, hum it out in songs. Even when I write, or wrote, “The Best Part of my Life,” the roses never seem quite red enough, the word love seems so dotted with too many periods and commas around it. Weary, and not good enough, it comes out, but it is all I have for the moment; the night sky doesn’t seem to have enough stars, and the jeweled tomorrow seems too far-off. Splendid as I try to believe it will be, the real gold that a person is worth never shines or gleams enough to make words worthy. But Rosa, my wife is the best part of my life, as my mother was, now passed on. So in my life I’ve been most fortunate to have had the love of two great women.” |