PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"Of course Rose was beautiful.  Any man would have noticed and considered that a prize.  But that is not what captivated me and made me feel the way I did.  She sat me on the edge of her bed one night, and instead of loosening my tie and slipping her hands into my unbuttoned shirt, which I would have expected and wouldn't have minded, she retrieved a shoe box from her closet.  She lifted the lid.  The shoes were still inside; I remember them- black pumps with open toes and a slender black strap.  Underneath the shoes was a stack of folded papers.  Poems.  She was a poet.  Images lept and flooded her mind- a boy on a dark street, a woman wading out to sea, a tree burnt in a fire, a black dog in a yellow field.  And although I wanted her hands to slip around the neck of my shirt down my bare back, these sheets of paper fed me more than that ever could.  One was written on a paper bag.  A poem on a paper bag- that was passion.  That was direction- more beautiful than her perfect face, more desirous than her skin."



                                    --Charles Whitney

                                        1945



Waiting for Charles Whitney,

I sit and meditate.

People ask me How Im Doing

and all i can say is

im trying really hard.

Im stronger than I remembered.

And Im not bitter at all.



Like Rose, images flood around me.

I pick them up and keep them in notebooks,

So that their color will never fade.

Does no one see how beautiful that is?



Memories of you seduce me to be weak.

They stroke my face,

They whisper to me of pain,

and how nothing will ever change.

But I will not give in.

Yes, I remember you.

And I rejoice in your beauty,

not letting the past affect me.

I have become so strong,

and I dont cry about whats gone,

I know someone out there is waiting for me too.

It just wasnt you.



Life goes on,

I'm sure it will keep getting better.

And as for my old fear that someday,

when I'm forty,

I'll see you in a grocery store and

well smile at each other like strangers, well...

thats always a possibility.

But Im realizing something.

I'm tired of looking for myself in other people,

and hoping that they'll recognize me.

Im living my own life now,

and damn, is it good.



I'll miss you.

I was never good at goodbyes.

But thats my goal, now.

I want you to know I feel no spite.

And I spent a long time loving you.

But I feel no weight because of it.



I know someone out there will love me right.

Inevitably, they'll see beauty

splattered on pages

growing stronger in fading light.

Until then, Ill just write,

and discover myself in every

discarded letter,

and not expect anyone to read.

Until then, Ill just enjoy life

and wait for Charles Whitney.