The Last Red Rose

The stress is killing me: will she propose?
Will I have nerve enough to see the ring
And not cry out? Does she still feel the sting
Of yesterday’s rejection? Will she close
The book on us? Will this be one of those —
How should I phrase it? — shifts from simmering
To boiling, calm to fever? Should I cling,
Sad, glad, and hopeful, to the last red rose?

I love her, truly, and as gloriously
As ever man loved woman, sweet but tough —
But love alone? When was that good enough?
She seems to think that, because she loves me,
We’ll manage, but my poor nerves won’t agree.
I can’t stand waiting. I’m a powder puff.

My Own Unsteady Heart

The space between us now, more like a chasm,
Has stretched, from centimetres into miles,
Intense disgust where there used to be smiles,
Nothing left, not even the protoplasm
Ancestor of the late lamented orgasm
That neither one of us, in all our trials,
Has felt regret for. A lost love beguiles,
Bewitches with the memory of a spasm.

I tended you sometimes when you were ill,
But your impatience was a nurse’s bane,
And when I touched your heart, your cry of pain
Stopped me, my own unsteady heart stood still,
And both of us agreed we’d had our fill.
I’d kiss you now, but there’s nothing to gain.

A Bright Song About Beer

You thought, mistakenly, I was enamoured
By those entrancing eyelashes that fluttered
Because I quickly shut my eyes and stuttered,
But actually, I bit my lip and stammered
Because I’d had four beers and I was hammered.
Thinking you knew which side of the bread was buttered,
You watched the tallow candle as it guttered,
And when I fell asleep you rose and clamoured.

But that was good: the tallow is too cheap;
The smell of ale, not everyone’s delight,
Hides that. I may have been a little tight,
But I’m okay: the ale puts me to sleep.
In fact I have no promises to keep,
Just more beer in the fridge for us tonight.

Souls Perish

I understand that heaven is the place
For you. You sing hosannas to the Lord,
Give generously what you can afford,
Implore me to accept this Holy Grace
I’m so determined to ignore. Your face
Shines with the Light of Glory, and a horde
Of worshipers warns me what I’ve ignored:
Souls perish, and they leave behind no trace.

I can’t keep track of every falling bird,
Not even when they tumble by the nestful.
Your attitude is spirited and zestful,
But maybe spirit isn’t the right word
For what I need. I know it sounds absurd,
But this “eternal sleep” sounds rather restful.