Day: June 21, 2024

What is it with this romanticism?
Will it follow me to the grave?
Will I be afflicted with it in the afterlife?
I’m well past the procreative years.
Why does this romanticism linger?
Is it imprinted in the soul forever,
Or stamped on my DNA to never go away?
It is said in death one has no voice box
And surely no reproductive organs,
But I think one has a spiritual heart.
Is that where romanticism starts
And remains eternally in some?
But not in womanless sages
Who might transcend the need,
Who might not have the imprint,
Who might be rare anomalies
Unlike terminally romantic me.

Bob Boyd

At any given moment your life can be thrown in chaos.
Something as random as a falling tree in a park,
Or rocks hurled off a bridge by juvenile delinquents.
In New York a shove into an ongoing subway.
But worse things that these can happen,
An agonizing, prolonged death by a disease
That the pain makes you wish for death.
If you’re kind of lucky, it’s not life threatening,
A breakup, a divorce, the loss of a job.
Nonetheless, this is an unpredictable life.

Bob Boyd

She disappeared ten years ago
Never found, no traces of her,
One of many unsolved cases.
Where do these people go?
Alien abductions, serial killers
Human traffickers, death?
She has been seen in dreams
By me and others, but no clue.
She’s smiling in these dreams,
But just stands and says nothing.
I don’t know what that means.
A psychic said she’s in heaven
I guess I’ll go with that for now.
It’s better than awful speculations.

Bob Boyd