Great Romances of the 21st Century

A rock and a hard place is where I most often find myself.

Such is the case at least in terms of the window I’m looking out of,

Do I stay, go, is this even a thing?

Currently located in a dreamy place in life where I can be all and everything I’ve always wanted.

Yet I still look for happiness outside of myself.

I’ve been called a ‘social butterfly’ so I guess it makes sense

but I have a habit of stabbing the air and grabbing where there’s nowhere and no one

to find nothing in hope of unearthing the one thing I’ve always wanted and sometimes thought I’ve had.

 

She’s nice. Really sweet. Never bitter, not to me at least.

It’s cool to see her when I do, but sometimes climbing up the walls she puts up is an insurmountable task.

This is foreign territory although the battle repeats itself.

A weird little romance that is kind of there but kind of non-existent

In my mind’s eye I see what could be

but past memories of my strikeouts, failures and foul balls off sidewinders

remind me not to jump the gun; have patience.

 

She’s amazing in a few dozen different ways.

I would go into detail but it would give it away,

for I don’t want my sappy-go-lucky,

angst ridden ballad to become the cause of my own hopes, foiled.

 

Her smile is as natural as the soil that grows a beautiful garden that is her life;

Birds and bees tend to her flowers

and the showers from rainclouds and heavy storms past

provide a canopy of shade where her head rests at dusk.

Bright and early the sun rises and the moon leaves,

taking her along with it.

 

What a shame.

I would love to love her,

but I can’t with this heart scarring nimbus hanging silently above her.

I know more of the story is untold and whatever unfolds is whatever unfolds

but I can’t help but feel like a Crystal Baller without a clue.

perhaps love really is a battlefield; if so, may the God of War

look favorably upon me, a heart-bruised Athenian

who just wants that goddess that he’s cool with to let him in.

 

 

-RSM

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Streetlights – A Sonnet

You can’t see too many stars in the city sky,

the stratosphere shrouded by clouds and pollution.

I looked down at the black tar ridden Earth, and sighed

at the grid that graphs life like some mathematical solution.

As my disappointment grew across my industrial surroundings

I had an epiphany, about the streetlights below.

They were just like the stars, their bright light now browning

into soft, dark amber that only city dwellers know.

They dot the black tar like stars do the universe

and are spackled across the urban horizon

the way loose change scatters across a purse

or the way the studs shine on the belt of Orion.

Streetlights are like stars on the surface of our world,

on a planet forever spinning in a galaxy that twirls.

Friendship, Romance and Rhyme

I take this walk as I often do, did, and will.

Albeit with different shoes

I’m still the same ‘valiant grandson who lives on a hill’.

times change as well as circumstances

as do with friendships and romances,

life although the greatest mystery

weilds the nostalgic sword of my history.

Not too old, yet not too recent

I take this walk, a bit more cognizant

as the last few days allow

my conscious mind to perceive.

Nine years beyond the grand trifecta’s end,

and with a wealth of knowledge up my sleeve

I still kind of miss the good old days

when we were young and in a daze

of our teenage ways and imperfections

our happiness was all the world’s protection

that any of us needed at the time.

It seems as if the bonds have broke

but we three will always be connected

through none but memories of friendship,

romance and rhyme.

Christmas Eve is like a Christmas Tease

T’was a bright sunny eve of the birth of the Christ,

And Puerto Rican moms are making pasteles

A bit chilly out but so far no ice,

unlike Megyn Kelly’s Santa, Christmas Eve is not white.

If the snow doth fall in the morrow, rejoice!

‘Til the morning commute comes the day to follow,

the season is here to shop ’til you drop, faster

than the prices that you’re chasing after.

Nevertheless enjoy the Christ-mess

of things that come to be.

No matter how much your family annoys you,

have a Merry Christmas Eve. – RSM

Solace.

A mind’s quiet place amongst the everyday hustle

of the gritty billboard ridden city,

I pity the ones who lack a fortress of solitude.

Be it ever so humble,

there is nothing like a long morning after a wild night,

listening to jazz and drinking raspberry tea

while admiring the sun and other random objects that shine over me.

It seems as if silence is a treasure

observed only by those who have heard the ambience

of their A to B commute for a bit too long

and strive to prolong the routinely inevitable.

Meditation of a sort, a sect of tranquility; a table for one.

-RSM

Love Is But A Cheap Flint

Love Is But A Cheap Flint

by Ruben Muniz

Servants line the halls of the seemingly rich man

whose smile hasn’t shown since he was a penniless hopeful;

Now his lips know only a grimace

and have met many women,

but he would build up his deck of cards

into a miniature bungalow and trade it

for the one ace of spades

who he couldn’t win over

because of pre-existing conditions

and his own sins.

The only skeleton in his closet

dons a white dress.

The music man plays his tune with a smile

and gets a roar from the crowd of onlookers

and leaves the stage at the night’s conclusion

with an empty feeling,

because his biggest fan never showed up.

So he goes home alone

drum sticks in hand

as his mind plays a percussive onslaught

of indifference, depression, and longing

for that big break to come, someday.

A dancer shines his shoes

and has moves that would impress a Russian ballerina,

and takes home another gold medal

to hang on one of his dozens of trophies

on his mantle.

He rips off his bowtie after the show

and throws it into his fireplace

and cries to himself

about that one move he just can’t seem to make his own.

A writer who has penned quite a few stories

in his day fears he will not live to see

his own perfect ending.

Deceptive emotions reign,

a tyranny of torturous thoughts

bombard their minds with angst.

It seems as if they’re fighting a war

that they were drafted into against their will;

with weary feet these men trudge on

not knowing if I’ll ever come home.

The spark comes and goes as if

love is but a cheap flint,

but the embers of their memories serve as emissaries

to reignite the flame in their minds of what could be.