My Lover Waits
waiting for my lover
My Lover Waits
by A. Gagliardi
10/28/03 with revisions 4/10
My lover waits in darkness knowing he will find me there.
He calls to me from deepest, saddest depths of my despair.
He yearns for me at height of celebration
and climbs the highest reaches of temptation.
My lover is a patient soul;
when I will come he does not know.
He waits upon my demise
with wise and patient eyes.
Time is of no concern to him.
Still, he bids me enter in.
My lover calls to me to do my part.
His sighs are ever present in my heart.
He waits with patient, panting breath,
‘til I release this body's hold by death.
With velvet, soft ringing in my ear
a voice of reason so sincere;
he asks one tiny act of will -
would my beating heart be still.
My lover meets me at some distant, secret moat;
some long forgotten melody burns nightly in his throat.
His soft embrace dissolves my burdens here
and promises that all my daily sorrows disappear
if I just welcome his embrace
and taste the lust of death upon my face.
He suggests that this unbearably ordinary life
is filled with too much agony and strife.
In the silken night my lover bids me come;
let us contemplate the stars and become one.
I am wooed by his thirst for me;
his passion snuggles tenderly.
My ever-present lover snuggles around my soul;
the drum beat of his yearning ebbs and flows.
It waxes and wanes until we touch again;
he is near and far – constant as the rain.
We consider each other daily
We meet in passion's teasing embrace
and playfully plan to run away.
Why Do I Write?
I write to chase away the blue moods, the red hot rages, the greens of jealousy, the cold white loneliness, the black frustrations of my life. I write to sort out the craziness of life, to figure out the reality of incongruities.
I write poetry as a release. Writing poetry is like letting steam out of a safety valve, that if not put to use, would blow off of its own accord and shower mayhem and pain all over my world. Sometimes it goes off anyway - even after poetry, after journaling, after writing words and words and words -like stones thrown into a lake on a sunny day. I try to throw the stones far enough away across the lake of sorrow and emotion. But, sometimes I cannot get them far enough.
What do I fear? I fear becoming a bitter, negative, bitching old woman. I fear losing my mind - not the losing so much, as the knowing that I have lost my mind. That grief-pain of being less than; less than I was or might have been. I see now how the bloom of youth has left me and occasionally I grieve it. And yes, I do know how trite that sounds.
I write out my hurt - to the last degree so that my anger will transform the red-hot stones boiling in the river of my tears and become flaming red tulips marching in a row to the song on the gentle breeze of forgiveness.
I write to give pause to the day; to pay the day its due reflection. And when I look into that mirrored surface, I see nuances of meaning not seen in the first passing glance.
I write to dialogue with someone who knows me more intimately than anyone. Because sometimes the loneliness is like a cold brick in my heart; lead weights on the mooring of my soul that promise to drag me down to the depths of despair. I can write those lead weights into dust - rusty dust.
I write because I am crazy. If I don’t write they will lock me up for sure. But, now, after a half century of living incognito as a crazy person, I understand. It takes more courage to go on living than to just ‘step out’.
The fear of being locked up was my mama’s fear - not mine. She always said they would someday say she was crazy and lock her up. In the end, that is what happened. I fear losing my mind - as I’ve already stated. The knowledge of losing my mind would be the precision of it - the tremendous waste of all the resources payed out over all the years used to gain this precious education, spent to achieve this level of "self-actualization". All the money, all the time away from my family, the loss of sleep, the hours spent learning some detail I didn’t really care to learn instead of doing what I really wanted to do. The waste is what I fear. Was the cost really worth it?
I write because what I’ve got isn’t enough. Even love isn't enough. That is my sadness, my depression. Why isn’t love enough? Why can’t I be happy with this ‘what’ that I have? What is it that is missing? I can’t be sure of love after the warmth of the night’s fuzzy festivities. Is it real? Is it the same today, now that the party is over? Does he love me now in my old fat body. Now that the ‘bloom is off the rose’ as they say. Can love linger after the rose has bloomed?
I write out of total incomprehension of this life and the complete inability to understand behaviors of others. I write to give pause, to ponder how to continue in this madness, when all around me seems lost and upside-down.
Writing holds me to the present, to the world on this plane and in this time. My druthers have begun to move on. The urge to just step out is so strong some days. I feel like an alien being who is longing for their home on some distant planet. This can’t be my life - this body I inhabit can’t be the real me. Surely I will wake up and be more comfortable with this body, this life, this person who is the me I live with. In some distant morning, I will surely wake up to the real me, in my real body and finally feel that I belong to myself and the world around me.
Writing anchors me to the living world even as the magic shadows bid me come join them; this last bit is the heart of it. I write to stay on this plane of existence. I live with the urge to leave this world - to leave the living, if that ‘s our current definition. Daily, I argue against the urge to 'step out'. Each day I search for one reason to stay. People seem to be so very selfish these days - so self centered and narcissistic. It’s all about self: self-rights, self-fulfillment, singular urges and singular needs to feed, feed, feed the consumer in all of us. And that consumerism - even while I am such a part and parcel of it - leaves me cold; leaves me wanting to scream, to quit, to run, run, run to an end of it all. This modern world pace is too much, too fast for me.
I find life so difficult a road, even while I know - I KNOW that I am living easy. I am RICH, compared to others -- intelligent, healthy, blessed. Yes. I know this. I guess, I expect people to be better; to be kinder, to be nicer to each other; to care more about the earth, the environment, their fellow men. I see the striking discrepancies of life. For instance, everyone says how important education is for young children, but we are always scraping to get what we need for them. And, people say family is so important but no one wants to gather with family. And for instance, the politicians who are always saying how important the preservation of our natural resources are , even as they exploit the natural resources in countries all over the world.
This is what creates the crazies. The chasm between the great love I feel for the world and the complete disregard I see given to it in our lives. This dichotomy of living, this double standard I see around me provides the grist for the depression mill. The ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’ become the dichotomy of rhetoric and reality.
And so I feel like stepping out. I am called to leave this realm. Even though, I have no knowledge, intuition or belief about other planes or worlds, there is something calling me away from this immediate existence. Is it the flight part of the ‘flight or fright” response a person has to danger or intolerable situations? I won’t fight, so the result is to flee -- and apparently, I really want to go for it.
Suicide is my lover, the one whom waits upon my demise with wild and patient eyes. He sits at my back door like a dog wanting a bone. Suicide is casting his lover’s net of despair to all within his reach, drooling his longing and promising a better tomorrow; throwing the cloak of death ever closer . . . ever closer. . . .ever closer.
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