Where Came That Sweet Image

     I just read another story from this group, and a gentleman spoke of his young love, and what had happened since their separation, and what to do now that they, once again, have contact.  It speaks to the kinds of challenges we all face day-to-day.  I could truly empathize with him.
     I have recently (I suppose less than a year) gotten back in touch with my teenage sweetheart.  We live "literally" on opposite sides of the globe; we chat, however, pretty much daily.  The length of our separation is almost scary, in this case, since the “early 70s”.
     To put it in perspective, we were sweethearts when I was 16 and she was "even younger".  Yet at that time, we both felt more than just a physical connection.  Even now, I'm amazed how much we relate to one another, and how similar our likes and dislikes are.  She too, is very much married, but every day when I get even a little note from her.  I find myself first smiling, and then, I wonder.  Because I was a geek, and managed to skip two grades, at 16 I moved off to college in another state.  I can’t help but ask what could have happened.
     I even wrote her a poem to try and express my feelings; and I received an incredibly beautiful one in return.  Some people would blow that off, and say it’s nothing; I’m an incurable romantic, and to me it means she still has an element of love “for” me, even if it could not be said she is in love “with” me.  In our case, we can only hope to share what meaning there is in the “much-awaited” daily text. 
     The poem I wrote for her, has elements of “what might have been”, but doesn’t dwell on it.  I wonder if others out there could relate to these types of feelings, and I’m curious how they deal with them.  At any rate, the following is the poem I sent to someone who is far from the girl she was, but still harbors some of the same feelings that young girl experienced when I held her in my arms, and I looked down into her beautiful brown eyes.  I hope some of you can relate.
 Where Came That Sweet Image
I knew I had experienced these feelings, these sounds,
Creativity wanted to escape my physical bounds.
The sounds were of words, I had not even spoken,
The feelings a story, but not clear yet; still broken.
But for reasons unknown, and shackles unseen,
The words were yet unwritten, my paper was clean.
At times we only need a motivator to inspire,
To release the sweet words, before we retire.
Call an end to the day, leaving many tasks yet undone,
But it really matters not, because a story was spun.
The details not yet settled, the main theme not yet said,
That could wait till tomorrow, but now off to bed.
I hoped that same inspiration, would remain in my thoughts,
And live in my dreams, whether proper or not.
A love unrequited, has a power quite sublime,
It has been known as unending, not a victim to time.
Whether it is, or is not, is yet to be seen,
But I hope and I pray it remains in my dream.

      I don’t regret my life, or the paths that I took, but what I hoped to express in this poem was the fact that sometimes we do hold feelings inside.   They can be pure emotions, or as in this case, the need to write a poem to show some feelings are not extinguished by the simple passing of time; albeit, there is an awareness that the emotion which still lives on, now in all probability will take on a new form.  The feelings will somehow morph into what works for our current “now”, but not all so different from what existed “then”.

51-55, M
4 Responses Jun 9, 2012

I love your poem, its is wonderfuly written. write another, I wanna read more! :-D

I will try... there was a time when poetry and prose poured from my mind, but now it would be classified more like that of a trickle. It seems like most of what we would "like" to do in life is OBE (overcome by events), and never gets done. I feel like the Robert Frost poem, "...and miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go before I sleep." (I love the works of Real poets too)

Glad you found your old flame looking for mine who seems to have vanished

I wrote it... hard to picture something like that comin' from a busted up ol' vet, huh? Seriously, I've always loved writing, be it poetry Or prose, and found it to be quite theraputic.

I loved the poem. Did you write or did she?