exercise in form & theme
BALLADE OF A FIRST LOVE LOST
I searched your name for years online
The searches questioned, “Did you mean
Lost gospels of, or Rubenstein?
But I had meant love at sixteen
And classifieds for time machines.
To Google, thus, I said adieu,
Switched off the monitor and screen,
And sought around this world for you.
My quest was very serpentine;
I saw you, then you turned unseen.
You loomed on sands of Palestine,
But vanished like Eurydice.
I downed a dose of Dramamine
To board a boat to Timbuktu.
And though your absence was quite mean
I sought around this world for you.
Your face spun ‘round the currents’ lines
Inside the wide Bight of Benin;
And stunned me like a fine van Rijn.
But soon enough the clouds convened;
The sky then lost its striking sheen.
I boarded jet planes to Peru,
Then France, Ukraine, Iran, and Wien
And sought around this world for you.
I quit though, found a hot khamsin
To ride home, void of rendezvous.
It’s your turn now to supervene;
I sought around this world for you.
Former poem:
SESTINA FOR MARK,
WHO WAS LOST BEFORE I COULD WRITE HIM A POEM
I typed your name into internet search engines
And it kept questioning, “Did you mean
Blog maverick” “did you mean the lost gospels of”
I saw you in the smoke of the twin towers.
I saw you naked against trees with bark-skin
And holes made by insects, creaking and rustling.
I saw your eyes bright red and red tie rustling
Along the steel of a fire truck’s hot engine.
Sooty sky feigned inverted photos of your skin,
So I called N.A.S.A. Life Science as a means
To pinpoint your exact location. I towered
Over white lab mice, thumbing backlogs of
National Geographic for how-to’s of
Training them to find you. The pages have rustled
For years now. I followed trailing towers
Of staled bread crumbs, cigarette butts, and gin
Bottles, robotically. I thought finding you meant
I could find myself. When driving I skinned
The borders of riverbeds like they were skins
Of accident scenes. I took apart bodies of
Old calculators for clues, such as your mean
Annual foot traffic. But their rust led
Me on for miles, tired my rattletrap’s engine.
When the illusionist in the Magic Tower
Made my watch vanish and struggled to tow
It back, I thought it found and favored your skin.
But now I know it was my own engineering.
I no longer accept that part of you is part of
Everything. You are not the palm trees rustling
In December. You are not the sharp, mean
Sea-green glass shards at Venice. What I mean
Is that I should not have kept from towering
So cautiously around them. Your hair rustles
In constellations, but you are not there. Any skinny
Shape can be found in them, any love story of
Any English major and mechanical engineer.
But like all of my illusions, stars are so bright and mean
That some nights they skin my judgment, clouds rustle
And I can almost tower up high enough, and you edge near.
I searched your name for years online
The searches questioned, “Did you mean
Lost gospels of, or Rubenstein?
But I had meant love at sixteen
And classifieds for time machines.
To Google, thus, I said adieu,
Switched off the monitor and screen,
And sought around this world for you.
My quest was very serpentine;
I saw you, then you turned unseen.
You loomed on sands of Palestine,
But vanished like Eurydice.
I downed a dose of Dramamine
To board a boat to Timbuktu.
And though your absence was quite mean
I sought around this world for you.
Your face spun ‘round the currents’ lines
Inside the wide Bight of Benin;
And stunned me like a fine van Rijn.
But soon enough the clouds convened;
The sky then lost its striking sheen.
I boarded jet planes to Peru,
Then France, Ukraine, Iran, and Wien
And sought around this world for you.
I quit though, found a hot khamsin
To ride home, void of rendezvous.
It’s your turn now to supervene;
I sought around this world for you.
Former poem:
SESTINA FOR MARK,
WHO WAS LOST BEFORE I COULD WRITE HIM A POEM
I typed your name into internet search engines
And it kept questioning, “Did you mean
Blog maverick” “did you mean the lost gospels of”
I saw you in the smoke of the twin towers.
I saw you naked against trees with bark-skin
And holes made by insects, creaking and rustling.
I saw your eyes bright red and red tie rustling
Along the steel of a fire truck’s hot engine.
Sooty sky feigned inverted photos of your skin,
So I called N.A.S.A. Life Science as a means
To pinpoint your exact location. I towered
Over white lab mice, thumbing backlogs of
National Geographic for how-to’s of
Training them to find you. The pages have rustled
For years now. I followed trailing towers
Of staled bread crumbs, cigarette butts, and gin
Bottles, robotically. I thought finding you meant
I could find myself. When driving I skinned
The borders of riverbeds like they were skins
Of accident scenes. I took apart bodies of
Old calculators for clues, such as your mean
Annual foot traffic. But their rust led
Me on for miles, tired my rattletrap’s engine.
When the illusionist in the Magic Tower
Made my watch vanish and struggled to tow
It back, I thought it found and favored your skin.
But now I know it was my own engineering.
I no longer accept that part of you is part of
Everything. You are not the palm trees rustling
In December. You are not the sharp, mean
Sea-green glass shards at Venice. What I mean
Is that I should not have kept from towering
So cautiously around them. Your hair rustles
In constellations, but you are not there. Any skinny
Shape can be found in them, any love story of
Any English major and mechanical engineer.
But like all of my illusions, stars are so bright and mean
That some nights they skin my judgment, clouds rustle
And I can almost tower up high enough, and you edge near.