AS I CONTINUE to organize the old poetry, here's a revised blank verse piece from a while back:
There must be passion: passion enough to leave
us trembling, leave us weary with delight.
Not need. Not friendship. These, too, can be love;
lives can be built on such, and happiness.
Am I so wrong in seeking more? Are you
then wrong to feel that something must be missing?
Two lonely fools are we and nothing more,
unready to accept less than our dreams.
Now we will press each memory of our love
between the pages of what might have been,
to find one day, breathe in the faded scent
of almost, of our something less than passion.
Stephen Brooke ©2003
Not anything special, I know -- maybe a bit boring even. It is not written about anyone or any time in particular, not 'personal' poetry but more of a story-telling poem, a portrait of sorts.
* * *
Had a not so good night with Mom. It was one of those times when she gets it into her head that someone has told her to go somewhere and do something. Exactly who and what is always rather vague. I think television is often the culprit on these occasions.
Anyway, I had to keep getting up and corralling her and getting her back into bed. Eventually she settled down and fell asleep, in the 'wee hours.' Steve is a bit sleep-deprived at the moment. Mom has been very much out of it lately, her short-term memory gets ever worse. She has to be told over and over that she is in her own home, that I am her son, etc. It does not look like a good winter for us.