Missing Woman

[ChristopherSea]

final version

Missing Woman

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 is no trace of makeup on my lapels;
I don't find your stray blonde hair 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;
the floor tiles are denied your lingerie’s touch.

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 lavender 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?



trueE/billy/leanne/eileen edit version 5 Thanks to all!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

version 4 (final?)

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

----------------------------------------------------------
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

-------------------------------------------------------

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

[ChristopherSea]

Can't hear your music, while driving my car,
no ballads or Mozart, just metal drone.
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 never 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 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 shall bring 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.



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

This is pretty good. I like the sea of sheets, and the floor longing for lingerie. Much of your diction is strange though, despite its vocabulary. Imagining what a conversation with you must be like! From the missing "I" in L1, and then the bears in L3 was on firsts read confused for a verb being used as a noun, but I suppose you meant stuffed animals (?), to the "never your" in S2, to the "I shall never" in S3, to "bring your mums", it just reads a bit strange.

A quick note on form: S1 had this sonic use of drone/gone that had me expecting you to use nearly matched sounds throughout -- or even rhymes, in the second and fourth line of each quatrain -- in the style of the great Vivian Smith. May be something worth considering.

Thank you kindly trueE and they are great observations! The strict 10-sylllable count restriction may have caused some of the rougher spots. Some of those very lines that you highlighted were trouble spots for me, so I am going to iron they out in a moment. Did it move you? Did you think she was missing or dead before the end?

[ChristopherSea]

Stone says dead.

---

Oh, before the end? Before I got to the final stanza I thought she dumped him. I hope that helps. I think that's what you wanted. And I assumed this device was intentional.

---

Btw, I think feet would work better than syllables for this. I'd focus more on the stresses in the line that the syllable count, even if you use WCW's elastic foot.

Great, yes, I tried to not reveal that she was dead until the final line. Agreed, I already made most of those edits and did not worry about the syllable count.

[ChristopherSea]

version 2.5

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 hairs 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 edits version 2.5

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

That's much smoother, but I would spend a day or so on it now getting it organized, and seeing if you can establish a pattern for your sonics.

Here are some great examples for quatrains:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242972
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242974

If something like that doesn't work for you, then you could try abandoning end rhyme sounds altogether, and add some internal sonic recurrences for rhythm (assonance/consonance, and just allow the line end sounds to echo these, but I think it's worth a try to see if you can utilize some of the formal elements of poetry for this, because you are already close, and this poem is perfect for it, IMO.

Thank for your help, the advice and those links my friend!

[billy]

hi chris
the problem i'm having with it is that it feels jerky when i read it. it doesn't read as free verse to me (okay, some does some doesn't) but it's more like free verse, if the latter i'd use a less structured form. if you want meter then you need to do a fair bit of work as some of the lines feel as though you stop short. i'm not sure why but the poem feels as though it needs to have a solid meter. as it is, it has a syllabic constant of 10 (apart from the first line) but it doesn't seem to be working as well as should, i suggest getting someone to read it out load to you to see if it help you with the rhythm. the poem feels very wordy and though it has some images, most are not strong enough and verge on tell.
the idea is fine but the execution feels weak.

thanks for the read.

version 2.0

I can't hear your music, while driving my car, is the comma after music needed? is there an extra half foot? the line works on two levels (her music being her voice as well as her music) a suggestion would be [I miss your music while driving my car,]
no ballads or Mozart, just metal roar. just metal roar feels forced. a suggestion would be[no ballads or Mozart, cover the roar]
Fresh alpine scents are former memories;
your bears, that dwelt on my dashboard, are gone. i like this line because it's a personal image.

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. this last stanza is novice poetry, it's wordy, it says little and it doesn't capture the reader. remember this is the pay off of the poem, 2nd in importance to the 1st stanza.

tru edit version 2.0

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

[ChristopherSea]

Thanks Billy! I tried to use the last stanza as a reveal that the couple didn't just break up, but that she has deceased, of course. It may come off too gimmicky, because it is of a different syle than the rest. It was meant to be the sober reality, as it were. Meter is tough for me, other than count, but I will try to sound it out and make the adjustments that you recommend. Much obliged for the read and opinion! /Chris

[billy]

ask leanne about me and meter chris. i struggled so hard with it, thankfully i'm now at that stage where i'm beginning to see what she and milo say, and how to utilize it. i still make mistakes and my iambs still read as a bit forced but i am getting better. the ear apparantly, apart from the eye and the brain is the most important part of knowing if a poem works or not. :J:

[ChristopherSea]

ask leanne about me and meter chris. i struggled so hard with it, thankfully i'm now at that stage where i'm beginning to see what she and milo say, and how to utilize it. i still make mistakes and my iambs still read as a bit forced but i am getting better. the ear apparantly, apart from the eye and the brain is the most important part of knowing if a poem works or not. :J:

OK, I will ask her. I have my tru/bil edit version 3.0 up. It seems smoother and may have a more subtle reveal.

[ChristopherSea]

version 3.0

I can't hear your music while driving my car,
no ballads or Mozart cover the roar.
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,
my majorette's march across wooden floors.
There’s no trace of makeup upon my lapels.
I can't find your stray blonde hairs 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 a 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 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 and the 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 3.0

-------------------------------------------------------

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

oh my, the sexual undertones of that new final stanza!

Thanks my Friend!

[billy]

it's early morn here so i'm just skimming the site till breaky.
on first pass it feels a lot smother.

i'll give some in depth feedback in a while.
one thing struck me,

I don’t hear the rhythm of your high heels,
my majorette's march across wooden floors.

i wonder if
a majorette's march across wooden floors.
would clear any ambiguity of the line?

[ChristopherSea]

it's early morn here so i'm just skimming the site till breaky.
on first pass it feels a lot smother.

i'll give some in depth feedback in a while.
one thing struck me,

I don’t hear the rhythm of your high heels,
my majorette's march across wooden floors.

i wonder if
a majorette's march across wooden floors.
would clear any ambiguity of the line?

I guess there is a change of reference from you to my mid sentence.

[Leanne]

Just for meter, Chris

version 3.1

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?

[ChristopherSea]

This reads quite smoothly Leanne. I think that the author to tends to smooth their own read by pausing, stretching and shortening words as they would want it recited. It's not always how another reads. You, of course, are the expert!

[billy]

the dit makes it better,
before you deit the life out of it i'd let it rest for a month or two then repost it to see what people say. always good to see people doing edits

version 4 (final?)

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?

----------------------------------------------------------


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

[ChristopherSea]

the dit makes it better,
before you deit the life out of it i'd let it rest for a month or two then repost it to see what people say. always good to see people doing edits

version 4 (final?)

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?

----------------------------------------------------------


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

Agreed, we go on vacation tomorrow, so it will sit. I'll work on another. Cheers

[EileenGreay]

version 4 (final?)

I can't hear your music while I drive my car,
no Bach or ballads, only metal drone. Perhaps replace the comma in this line with a semicolon? It would heighten the sense of detachment between music and metal droning.
Fresh pine scents are memories of yesterday;
your bears, that dwelt upon my dash, are gone. I feel that the commas in this line are unnecessary.

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. Not so sure about this line - something 'on' a surface doesn't tend to be hidden, unless you're suggesting it would blend in with pinstripes or something. The image of a dangling hair or loose thread is a powerful and beautiful evocation of mortality, so keep that image, but maybe rethink 'hidden on'.

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. My favourite line so far.

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 love the third line of this stanza, but the final line seems a touch bathetic. The third line conjures an image only to reject it ('no longer'), a device which I think works superbly - perhaps try repeating this rejection of the image in the final line? Just a suggestion!

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 I assume there's meant to be a bit of punctuation here?
Do you smell them, darling, when I visit you
and feel my hand bleed warmth into your stone?

I very much like this, Chris. Congratulations on a beautiful poem. My suggestions are merely my own opinion, and I hope that you do not find them impertinent!

[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

----------------------------------------------------------
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

-------------------------------------------------------

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

[ChristopherSea]

Thank you so much Eileen for stopping by to read and comment! I realized that I rushed my last edit of this poem before going on vacation, so I appreciate you catching some mistakes, as well as making some other excellent observations. I shall take them all into consideration when I get back to this one. Good to see you!/Chris

---

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

----------------------------------------------------------
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

-------------------------------------------------------

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

Yes spikerider, it was supposed to play out just as you read it, seeming to be about a breakup, but actually a death. Cut-ups can be fun and probably work better with lines than mere words. The Beat Burrough's method yields a laborious read for me. Thanks much for reading and sharing your approach!