Tuesday, September 20, 2011

And in French

Still life- Red flowers and poppies, Gogh, 1890

                                                           Them, you and me
When we talk of love,
Why do we do?
Flowers and a crazy dove.

It got dull and boring
Hostel room, on a regular day
You and me, sat reading
in a dirty, rusting, sack of hay.

You thought it funny if
were awful smelly feet,
abruptly thrown in my lap
and gruff my read
swear I, you were to get a slap.

Smelled the reek of fish
Stale and fried
A surgeon’s pressure stockings
Never washed and dried.

Smiled sheepishly, you
folded them away.
Cooling my anger 
I minded my own way

On a day as today
I remember fondly
And if I look astray
its  cuz’ I miss you so badly.

I don't know
When they talk of love
Why do they do?
Flowers and an albino dove.

They have tried,
tried and tried again,
to fit it right. Unending quench.
in paintings, plays, songs,
and in French.

Nothing is more romantic
than a simple memory of you.
Now, that you’re across Atlantic
Don’t know how better to say,
I love you.