This poem is presented to you all as a token of the memory of my upbringing by my recently deceased mother. But I was pondering what is the ideal of love when I was single. Also, you might detect a love of word play here!
(A study in solitude vs. family. )
Toast
Love is a ghost hiding in the rafter,
Winking behind the post, mocking any laughter;
Taunting each meeting and every day greeting
Haunting and fleeting even while eating.
Even still, together still, better still to breathe as two
One day will arrive with deep sighs of a dawn's dew.
Faults laid into a bucket, no need for their wells
Enjoying silent words, spilled misspelled spells.
Resting without work, working without rest
Too much of a good thing is a daring test
Of endurance without that special perk
Like the centrifuge magnifying spins of each quirk.
Pedaling hard and feeling blue
In an igloo without special glue
Puzzling days roll from a guillotine
Fingers alight on a mysterious screen.
In a gilded birdcage on a trapeze
Letter by letter flying with ease,
For a snappy ending down the road
Her mind radiantly tap-dances in Morse code.
A searching for a taboo forest of gold;
What he only knows is a force of cold:
Purloined mind flying through the trees
Bringing on a pontifical wheeze.
Until it wrings in the most,
Love is a ghost
Sure to beckon visions
To toast garish recollections
That disturb monster lies
Until imperfections bring:
Perfect looks from your eyes.
@seemsame
4/11/17