He Was Quite Passionate…

Jeremy Bray went through day to day
With nary a care and nary a say
Spending his days with his tube and his book
He had all he could want and he knew how to cook

“Nobody knows me and nobody cares
When I speak my mind freely I’m met with blank stares
I’m ok with myself and I like what I see
I’m all that I ever will care that I be”

But Jeremy Bray a pickle was in
He’d seen her out dancing, he’d bought her some gin
She’d giggled when he’d ordered his own Blue Lagoon
She’d smiled and she’d touched him, she’d said “see you soon”

He’d seen her about and he’d seen her within
He had stopped eating, little sleeping for him
She’d smile whenever they met on the street
For him an impossible, amazing treat

His dreams they were haunted, his days were a bore
He longed to see her and he wanted more
His stomach was upset, his heart was aflame
His mind was in turmoil and she was to blame

The next day he realized he’d have to act quick
If he wanted to impress this incredible chick
“A painting! A novel! A sculpture! A song!
I’ll gift her my love, that will never go wrong!”

“With feeling! With purpose! With a turn of a phrase!
I’ll write something good, a great sonnet of praise!
My soul should be seen and my heart must be known,
I’ll write this down quick then I’ll reach her by phone.”

Jeremy Bray, full of his own hype,
Though his nouns and his verbs and his ‘jectives not ripe,
Constructed his stanzas in ABC form
While his rhymes met their mark like a listener’s snore

Starry night and lion’s roar
Kittens mewl and dawn
Flowers on the window sill

[He penned his metaphor]

The cobalt sky
The yellow sun
A ribbon in your hair

[Some snapshot of a memory of her in open air]

Oh tender dove of tenderness
You float above the vine
I wander empty without you

[He jotted down line nine]

A truer love
A higher joy
No man has ever known

[His truer, higher feelings down he crumpled up his poem]

Perhaps if he’d called her, asked her out for a drink
Had heard her and seen her, asked her “what did she think?”
Perhaps if his focus had been her and not him
His insight and feeling mightn’t have factored so dim

With furrowed brow and muscles taut he lumbered in again
This time his raw emotion flowed into his felt tip pen

O lovely lady of the sea [“Wait! Lady of the blue”]

O lovely lady of the blue
How could you ever knew?

“No, that’s no good! No, that’s not right!
That line’s a horrid, painful sight!”

O lovely lady of the blue

“Your rhyme is good but rings not true!”

O lovely lady of the sea
You’ve such a pretty knee

“That’s better form, a better start
The flow is pure and hints at art”

O lovely lady of the sea
You’ve such a pretty knee
You’re graceful as a willow tree
Do you ever think of me?

I’m thoughtful and I’ve got some dough
Great listener am I
I’m pretty smart, I know my stuff, never shall I ask why

“Dreadful dreck!” he grimaced as he read what he had penned
“The lovely lady of the sea won’t make it to the end!
I need some theme, some allegore, to solidify this mess”
So dusting off his PC screen he booted in distress

The theme was her, there was no doubt
For without her the poem was out
But what about a flower burst
A rose in bloom to quench the thirst

Your petals open in the sun [“A metaphor of force”]
You flower in the morning dew [“The secret is it’s coarse”]
Your scent is lovely to inhale [“Like fresh cut lily’s which I adore”]
You entice the random bee with pollenized knee [“Did I just call her a whore?”]

He struggled with his tortured meter
Fearing that he couldn’t please her
The hour grew late, his eyelids fell
His heartbeat slowed and tolled its knell

No soul on paper, no self shown true
He’d looked inside and seen right through
The sun came up, the sun went down, the days grew short then long
The weeks they passed, the months, the years, and life had moved along

Sometimes he recalls with his lips in a purse
The time he attempted his ponderous verse
His unfinished lines sometimes search for a word
But his true self is silent, never said, never heard