True Love

by Judith Viorst (I didn't write this)

It is true love because

I put on eyeliner and a concerto and
make pungent observations about

the great issues of the day

Even when there’s no one here but him

And because

I do not resent watching the Green Bay Packers

Even though I am philosophically opposed to football,

And because

When he is late for dinner and I know

he must be either having an affair or

lying dead in the middle of the street,

I always hope he’s dead.

It’s true love because

If he said quit drinking martinis but I kept

drinking them and the next morning

I couldn’t get out of bed,

He wouldn’t hell me he told me,

And because

He’s willing to wear unironed undershorts

Out of respect for the fact that I am philosophically

opposed to ironing,

And because

If his mother was drowning and I was drowning

and he had to choose one of us to save,

He says he’d save me.

It’s true love because

When he went to San Francisco on business

while I had to stay home with the painters

and the exterminator and the baby who

was getting the chicken pox,

He understood why I hated him,

And because

When I said that playing the stock market was

juvenile and irresponsible and then the

stock I wouldn’t let him buy went up

twenty-six points,

I understood why he hated me,

And because

Despite cigarette cough, tooth decay,

acid indigestion, dandruff, and other

features of married life that tend to

dampen the fires of passion,

We still feel something

We can call

True love.

Do not stand there at my grave and weep

This is a poem I found in my stress management textbook (of all places) and it reminded me of my character, Ivan. he dies. It's a sad sweet violent death because the female protagonist loves him.

 

Do not stand there at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentile autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there. I did not die.

~Joyce Fessen

(For Ivan)

The Problem with Poetry

The Problem with Poetry
is you need something to say
and you need to say it
in a certain way
But when you can't count or think
in words or phrase
you're always left
with a blank page

And the problem with song writing
is you need to sing
to create a sound
that links verse with key
but when you don't know notes
you're left standing
at a mic or piano
with all purpose missing

But the thing about writing
is it's so versitile.
you can show it or say it
let it take a while,
or multum in parvo
or not say it at all
but you're never left empty,
and always feel full.