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SENTIMENTAL
SATURDAY Click
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Photo by Dan Chapman ©2001
Stanyan Entertainment Group
A Thought for Today
What is finished should be finally done,
not hung onto like a lifeline that will finally stretch and snap.
A few weeks back I published a
new poem, “To One Absent” and last Saturday continued somewhat in the same
vein with “A Love Letter Unsent.” It seems as though I’ve started
something that has taken on a life of its own. The amount of mail that
continues to come in regarding both is more than I had ever anticipated.
Does everyone have a secret love or someone they feel they can only
communicate with by unsent letters? And what are the reasons, shyness,
someone who has gone to the other side, fear of rejection? Does the need
for writing such personal letters but not sending result from one or both
of you being in another relationship? Are you separated by prison walls or
walls of your own making, or is it some something else?
Whatever the reason there seem to be a lot of you who are doing as I do,
writing notes and other mail the beloved one may never see. Many of you
have confided in me and told me ‘the why.’ As to my reasons for writing
letters that go unsent, I have shared them with only one other person.
I go on writing letters that I do not send because I have to. They need to
be gotten out of me and onto paper. Perhaps I am in love and unwilling to
go the final mile, you may draw your own conclusions. Some of what I write
is too personal or too erotic to share and so they stay the bigger secret.
But there are those letters and parts of letters I’m willing to let go of
on a Saturday morning and another one of these is printed below. A few
more lines of words, silly and self indulgent to those who are not in love
and perhaps thoughtful to those who are. For the latter I hope that
whatever chord they strike will be loud enough to make a difference, if
that difference is only to let you know you are not alone.
RM 6/7/2001 Previously
unpublished
 Two new
appearance dates just announced! Booking for "An Evening with
Rod McKuen" at the Riverton Rendezvous is open! Click below for
more details:
Concert & Appearance Details
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George Axelrod o
Ilene Cotrubas o
Robert Cummings o
Marcia Davenport o
Johnny Depp o
Donald Duck o
Mona Freeman o
Michael J. Fox o
Marvin Kalb o
Robert S. McNamara o
Jackie Mason o
Les Paul o
Peter the Great o
Cole Porter o
Natalie Portman o
Happy Rockefeller o
Dick Vitale o
Fred Waring o
Jackie Wilson |
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Only the seed the old tree drops to start another cycle of life is
important.
I'm mad at midnight for the things I didn't
do. That doesn't mean I wouldn't take a chance again.
Say I love you freely, but remember that it
cannot be taken back.
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A LOVE LETTER UNSENT, III |
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Dear You,
Last night after speaking with you (call it making love because I cannot
hear your voice even on the telephone without a sense than we are doing
more than talking) I fell asleep almost as soon as the sound of you
trailed off on the line. It was early and sometime after midnight I
came awake again: not with a start but the way one goes to sleep, I
drifted awake.
Your breath was heavy on me as if your head had found that hollow in my
chest and knew it was eternal nesting space. I bent down to your thighs
and grasped a handful of you in an easy grip. We stayed that way a small
forever, my other hand pressing your head even closer to me.
When we are together our kisses come so often, as if one pair of lips
cannot canvas the other quite enough. They interrupt whatever else our
mouths are doing, speaking, tasting one another’s humps and caves,
sighing, breathing. Have I been kissed so often? Never. And it is never
enough. The taste of you is not like anything I can name, not even you,
for it is different every time. Similes were not made for your saliva
mixed with mine.
Your neck, your shoulders, your back a new adventure to me every time.
Did any other pioneer lay hands on fresh new relics without another
distant dig or relay race? My thumb finds freshness from familiar rib
and shoulder blade. Your tongue along my elbow without warning eases
ache that never was.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever know how much of us is memory and how much
made up because of my awful need to be with you. I know, I know, be
patient. I am, we are. Soon. If soon is tomorrow, I’ll be here. If soon
means years or sometime, I’ll be here. If you think you hear me say I
love you at odd times, you are always right. I love you. I say it often
and I think it always.
We are apart for now, but only now. Good night, my love, and good
morning.
As always,
Me.RM 6/3/2001 1:15
AM First Publication 6/9/2001 |
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