Lovelorn Poets

From Anchorage to Zebulon: In Search of Missed Connections

Lovelorn Poet in New Orleans, LA: Connection

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Missed Connections in New Orleans

Connection

Alas, unrequited romance bloomed into
the budding blossoms of promise for two souls lost
in back alleys and vomit stained streets
seeking solace in the bottle- cradled bosom
that used to hold our hearts captive.

I found you upon my porch
Seeking reprieve from spite’s spitting rage
Finding Dylan’s shelter in my arms.

I promise that the reverence I hold for your spirit
is the solid foundation for the continuation
of our steps.

Your smile still feeds me as it has since the beginning.

Missing no more, our soul strings connect and intertwine.

I love you.

Never a stranger one, always.

May the myth of our love outlive us in this city of fleeting, broken hearts.

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconHer Two Cents

Throughout our lives beginnings and endings come together and double back on one another creating the seamless line of a circle. We can experience the moment looking forward and we can also experience a moment looking back. Sometimes, like in this reversed piece of music from Boards of Canada, both directions can prove equally appealing.

Lovelorn Poet in NYC: Missing

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Missed Connections in Manhattan

Missing

You.
Very much
And I feel lost, trying to get back to you.
Maybe I see nothing. Maybe I see everything.
Maybe I know. I know I know.

Interpretation is not always easy. Learning a language you were supposed to already know.
Wishing it was as simple as walking up to you and saying
I miss you
I love you
I am grateful for you.
I want you by my side
Always.

Maybe it is that simple.

Sweet Dreams. Maybe tomorrow will be it. Leave some bread crumbs.

PS. I am good at being happy, but also good at pretending to be.

 

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“Maybe I know. I know I know” writes our NYC poet in this heartbreaking love letter of sorts. There are so many things in our lives we prefer to ignore or bury or deny, but deep down inside, we know they’re hiding out there – somewhere between our heart and our gut – just waiting for us to come around and pay attention. Is pretending to be happy as good as being happy? No, but sometimes it’s the only place to start.

Lovelorn Poet in Ann Arbor, MI: Missing Ingredient (Me)

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Missed Connections in Ann Arbor

Missing Ingredient (Me)

Serving up Love
Ingredients:

Equal Parts. . …

Freedom and Opportunity
Hugs and Kisses
Hopes and Dreams
Talks and Walks
A Dash of Twist and Turns
-and-
A pinch of intuition

Directions:
Start with Freedom and Opportunity; add two people and mix until well blended.

Add Hopes, Dreams, Walks, and Talks. Use a pinch of intuition

-when you are comfortable-

add Hugs and Kisses. At first, batter might be thin, but the more time you nurture the dough, the easier it is to work with.

Add a dash of Twist and Turns; Serve warm.

 

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconHer Two Cents

When I went searching for “songs about cooking”, Eileen Barton’s classic, “If I Knew You Were Coming, I’d Have Baked a Cake.” topped the list. However, this amusing 1969 Sesame Street skit, featuring Ernie and Cookie Monster (who ate cookies, not vegetables, at the time) shows that sometimes, even when you have all the necessary ingredients, there can be a disconnect between what one wants and what another is able to provide.  Maybe Ernie should have offered broccoli…

Lovelorn Poet in Madison, WI: Your Eyes Said Appalachia

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Your Eyes Said Appalachia
Missed Connections in Madison

Your eyes said Appalachia. Mountains and clear streams. Sassafras. The smoky taste of oak-aged bourbon long rested in a cellar. Rounded mountains stretching towards horizon in ever-bluer hues, capped here and there in wispy clouds. Seeing you I envision picnics by wild rivers, summer’s last wildflowers in fading bloom and birds flying south. Gentle but insistent wind from the north. Us curling together after the sandwiches are eaten, the radiant warmth of two bourbons, your softness and my leathery hands.

Cottonwood leaves are yellowing along the shores of lakes you love. Walk with me there under dark clouds while wind-waves harass the rocks. Any day I’d walk with you along our river, be it channeled as it may.

Winters here are legend, but ancient Polish ancestors pass down warmth for you to carry: be warm with liquor, food and love. Two heart-breakers fit well together. You like to analyze, but sometimes things are simple. Let’s lie under blankets curled together and read good poems all winter.

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconHer Two Cents

This video of the Appalachian Waltz, featuring the beauty of autumn foliage, couldn’t be a better backdrop for this romantic love poem from Madison. It’s enough to make me feel the crisp air and warm sunshine and image the quiet sounds of a evening reading by the fire.

Lovelorn Poets in Brooklyn, NY: Cupio Dissolvi

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Cupio Dissolvi
Missed Connections in Brooklyn

The fucking eggs florentine in the take-out bag dissembled along with her 23 chromosomes. Tremors, a flushed feeling in Y’s cheeks. A paralysis of sorts; an apparition inducing momentary asphyxiation, or threatening plausible death.

She’d always imagine fight: an adult version of herself would say coolly, “X… how have you been?” This was flight: though the thought of hurling herself onto the 3rd rail was quickly disregarded, it sounded painful, messy, and even more narcissistic than she thought she was capable. Like a bee in a jar.

She nearly laughed there on the periwinkle subway bench, and probably would have, had she the ability to move her face. It was all absurd. She didn’t look up from the book she had finished an hour earlier, until she stood up to leave the train at Halsey, X had already gone.

Now seeing him, she felt it was inopportune. Yet equally, it fit right in with the events of her day. She woke early, then went for a late breakfast and coffee at a quiet restaurant, where she found it a perfect place to write. Something she had decided she was going to do for the rest of her life–write–that is. Her sister sent her images of them as children, she laughed and everything had this nostalgic feeling smothered all over it. She thought of getting her nails done, although she wasn’t one for manicures. So she decided to go back to her loft in Bushwick, and write some more.

Phenomenology. Collective consciousness. Bouts of events that appear to have some meaning. Connectedness. She thought of all this in her dizzy state, and she thought about this person. Had they stayed together, how it would have been, and who they still might be.

 

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I’ve been finding more and more short stories or snippets of stories or narrative style poems on missed connections – and it’s pretty exciting and mysterious. Take this piece from Brooklyn; it kind of reads like a quasi-sci-fi / dystopian romance but the segment is so brief that you’re left with more questions than answers. I rarely try to contact these anonymous writers (as most of the times the posts have expired, been flagged, or deleted) but curiosity is starting to get the better of me…

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