What I Was Meant To Forget

And Other Poems About Lost Love

Issue#19

First Love

A purple sun rises
from the ashes of her soul
and changes the color
of heaven. I play chess
with God and listen
to His stories about the old days
when Abraham walked
by His side, and David wrote
songs of love. She died
in a car crash at the age
of sixteen, at a time when
we both were virgins, and
Martin Luther King was
assassinated in Memphis.
Even God cheats at chess
and forgets to take a shower.
Hold my hand, she said as
she led me down to the muddy lake
where we gazed at a yellow moon
and traded kisses for a few
precious moments. Sometimes,
memory is the only gift we
give ourselves, and the only hope
we have of finding our way
home. I listen to God belch
and wish that I could hold
her hand one more time before
the sun rises over my grave.

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Notes

As a young boy, I memorized 300 Bible verses, allowing me to attend Bible camp every summer. There I met a young girl. When I was in college, I learned that she died in a car accident at the age of 16.

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Resurrection

My arthritic fingers
lift the faded photograph
from my worn-out wallet,
and I stare into
her large brown eyes.
I imagine holding her
again in my arms
and feeling her breasts
pushing against my chest.
We walked hand in hand
through a field of dandelions,
basking in the sunshine
rising from our hearts.
We were lovers of the soul,
dancers on the wings
of dreams, holding fast
to the passions of our youth.
And yet, I let her go—
let her fade from my heart
like this old photograph
I still carry in my wallet.
Sometimes, memories play
cruel jokes on our hearts.
Sometimes, God is the devil
in a white wedding dress.
I fold my hands in prayer
and beg for another chance—
for the opportunity to love
another person with all my heart.

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Notes

A common theme in many of my poems is remembering lost love. This poem tells the story of an old man who lost the woman he loved, and now he wishes he could get her back.

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What I Was Meant to Forget

Sometimes the night
is a fountain of love
flowing romantically
through your heart.
I reach for a glass
of wine and remember
what I was meant
to forget. The moon
shines brightly through
the window and comes
to rest on your uncovered
breast. I have held
that breast gently in
my hands and caressed
its nipple with my lips.
Yet, now my eyes
have grown dim
with regret, and I wish
for another time when
our bodies were strong
and vibrant, and our lives
on a path to the future.

You were a feast of flesh
to these young eyes during
a time when my manhood
throbbed with love. You were
a dancer, light on your feet,
leaving footprints on my heart.
I watch the moon and 
dream, not knowing where
the days and nights have
gone. Your death caught
me by surprise and left
me exposed to the rain
and snow. A coldness
entered the veins of
my body and found its
way to my heart. I can
not shake the fear I feel
so I sit alone listening
to the wind and dreaming
of your breasts, supple, soft
and pressed against my face.

If I could run away,
I would not run because
I have nowhere to go.
Your laugh wakes me
from my slumber and
I search the bed sheets
for the warmth of your body.
I remember when they lowered
your body, all that remained
of what had been you, into
the darkness of that hole.
I screamed a painful
cry and fell to my knees.
You shake my shoulder,
waking me from my slumber,
only it is not you, not
even the ghost of you.
Only myself clutching
my pillow. I listen to
the sounds the moon makes
as it moves across the night
sky, and remember the hole
that is in my heart. Why
is God so cruel? Why do we
forget those whom we love?

I held your hand as you 
drifted through the veil.
I saw death touch
your cheek. He took
your love from me. He
stole the only thing I
loved. He ripped my heart
into shreds. He laughed 
at my pain. And the gods
chuckled. Alone with my tears,
I struggle to remember
the color of your eyes,
the smell of your perfume, and
the healing power of your love.

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Notes

Memory is another common theme in my poetry. These three poems appeared in my book, What I Was Meant to Forget, in 2004. (Out of Print)

Thanks for reading my poetry.

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