Missing Woman

[Spikerider]

version 4 (final?)
When i began reading i was thinking "she" was a missing person OR a broken relationship it wasnt til the End i figured out she Was Dead. If that was ur intention then ok, but as the "Reader" i wouldve enjoyed the read & Felt ur loss is id know she was dead in the begining. When i write a poem i write ea sentence or prase or line w a Space Between then i cut them up w scissors & reArrange them on table & readAload, i think if u Started w the grave site & then DROVE HOME to an empty Apt thats NO LONGER A HOME W/O HER... then add ur paragraphs as u walk thru the apt ALONE & WithOut Her for the 1st time, would help take the Reader on the journey of your mourning more Effectively ;-)

I can't hear your music while I drive my car,
no Bach or ballads, only metal drone.
Fresh pine scents are memories of yesterday;
your bears, that dwelt upon my dash, are gone.

I don’t hear the rhythmic click of your high heels,
a majorette's march over wooden floors.
There’s no trace of makeup on my clean lapels;
no stray blonde hair is hidden on my suit.

I remember every silly wrestling match
for absolute control of the remote;
then there was the great bedcovers tug-of-war,
with you triumphant in a sea of sheets.

Your nylon stocking garlands have all vanished;
a mildewed shower curtain still remains.
Your sweet songs no longer come through steamy sprays
and floor tiles long to touch your lingerie.

I have yearned, then prayed, and now dream I might
just watch you shave your legs one final time.
Now my mirror’s dim, its silver's oxidized;
I'll never see you dance in there again.

On this day each month I buy lavendar mums
remembering them clasped against your breast
Do you smell them, darling, when I visit you
and feel my hand bleed warmth into your stone?



tru/bil/lea edit version 4

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version 3.1

I can't hear your music while driving my car,
no ballads or Bach, only metal drone.
Fresh pine scents are former memories;
your bears, that dwelt on my dashboard, are gone.

I don’t hear the rhythm of your high heels,
a majorette's march across wooden floors.
There’s no trace of makeup on my lapels and
I don't find your stray blonde hair on my suit.

I long for our silly wrestling matches
for dominion of the remote control;
then there’s our bedcovers great tug-of-war,
with you triumphant in sea of blue sheets.

Your nylon stocking festoons have vanished,
but a mildewed shower curtain remains.
Sweet songs don't sing from harsh sprays within
and the floor tiles crave your lingerie’s touch.

I yearned, then prayed, now dream that I might
watch you shaving your legs one more time.
My mirror’s dim, its silver's oxidized;
I shall never see you dance there again.

This day each month I buy lavendar mums
to recall you holding them close to your breast.
I hope you smell them when I visit you
and feel the warmth of my hand on your stone.



tru/bil edit version 3.1

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version 2.0

I can't hear your music while driving my car,
no ballads or Mozart, just metal roar.
Fresh alpine scents are former memories;
your bears, that dwelt on my dashboard, are gone.

I don’t hear the rhythm of your high heels,
my majorette's march across hardwood floor.
There’s no trace of makeup on my lapels
and your stray blonde hair's are not on my suit.

I long for our silly wrestling matches
for dominion of the remote control;
then there’s our bedcovers great tug-of-war,
with you triumphant in your sea of sheets.

Your nylon stocking festoons have vanished,
but a mildewed shower curtain remains.
Sweet songs don't sing from the harsh sprays within
and the tile floor craves your lingerie’s touch.

I have yearned and prayed, then dreamt that I might
gaze at you shaving your legs one more time.
My mirror’s dim, the silver’s oxidized;
I shall never see you dance there again.

Today I'll bring you your beloved mums
and I’ve written a new poem to read.
I hope you hear me when I speak to you
and feel the warmth of my hand on your stone.

tru edit version 2.0

This was a challenge from my wife to write something more emotinally charged