USA

larry@lgjaffe.com 

Used Pedestals

He used to think of her as
girl
in those tender moments
when she passed through
the mirror highlighting her image
blooming like the flowers
she caressed in her garden.
And then she went on
to become
woman
her horizons broadened
by matronly duties
and rings of skeptical
surrounded her eyes
And later she simply became
Wife
where she was
placed on a pedestal
of worn longing
covered in layers of silence
another dusty gift
waiting for the next generation.

A pause, a tear, a flower

What are you doing,
I inquired of the man
Who sits forlorn
at the curb of time
wrapped, waiting
wailing?

I am crying,
he responded with despair.
I am crying.

Why do you cry
I interjected?
The day is beautiful,
the sun shines so brightly
it almost blinds.
Children laugh and play
in streets constructed of
concrete and sweat.
Mothers and fathers
gaze fondly at their offspring
knowing life eventually triumphs.
And yes lovers do walk hand in hand
planning their futures despite
windows of opportunity
slamming shut
and breaking.
Yet you just sit here and cry.

Yes I cry!
Of course I cry.
I cry for things
I cannot see
and things I see all
too clearly.
I cry because
of the pain in my heart
and the pain in my bones
that never ends
I cry for children
growing hungry
and bruised by
misplaced desire.
I cry for women abused
debauched  by a society brought up
on militant values.
I cry for soldiers
fighting for lost causes
substituting bravery for honor.
I cry for policemen
beating society into oblivion
and criminals shredding
the values once thought vital to all.
I cry for both ends of a puzzle
never solved
and those caught in the middle.
I cry for inhumanity.

How can you cry for things
you do not experience,
things you do not really feel?
How can you claim
a person's pain
from their doomsday
and make it your own?
How can you be so pretentious
as to feel what is not yours?
I asked more than I wanted to know.

I am empathic
and feel for people
the very core
of their emotions
reaching into me
screaming.
This was his reply.

Can you not
feel the joy
I asked?

I can feel the joy,
he said softly.

Then why
do you not laugh?

The pain
is stronger,
he explained.
It envelops
surrounds
and overwhelms.
I am simply an empath,
no more no less,
he said again
even more softly than before.
I am like a radio receiver
tuned into suffering.

What if you could
reverse the process,
I inquired?

What do you mean,
his brow creased
with confusion
and thought?

What if you
could broadcast
joy and not just
hear sorrow?

He pondered this
and smiled.

The sadness of making love

If your eyes
were not
so distant
I could imagine
you lying next to me
and not some forgotten lover
in fixed grimace
of the past.

If your eyes
were not
slammed shut
so tightly
I could imagine
making love to you
and not your memories.

If your eyes
were not
staring
through me
I could imagine
hearing you climax
in place of bit back
silence.

This is the sadness
of making love
with joyless tears
and diamond cutting
hearts.

© All Copyright,  Larry Jaffe.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.