Poems by R.M. Dolin
American Haiku’s from The Book of Darwin
Unaccustomed to caution,
they just kept climbing closer
to the steeper parts
of their slippery slope.
The world’s moving fast, you’re either a lifelong player
or you’re sideline sushi;
pretty to look at, tasty when fresh,
but downright useless when your short shelf-life expires
It’s always something small,
some unrelated something that’s ignites
into the something much bigger,
something that’s been silently dormant for too long.
There’s a part of her that thinks
there’s a part of him that enjoys
almost telling her what he brought her
all they out here to talk about.
Oh, Señor, she softly says
in a sultry voice,
you charm me with the devilish skills
of Satan himself.
Do you think
of me
when you
make love.
Be mad. Mad at me,
mad at the world, hell, mad at God
if that’s what it takes
to turn your lights back on.
While my mirror has two faces,
the one you force me
to see is not
the one my filters follow.
“Do this,” he stoically said
“turn on the tap and slowly fill
this pitchers with memories of
the love that left the greatest regret.”
If Charles Darwin’s assertions can’t be altered,
it foreshadows future conflicts
between man versus man
not ending well for man.
Life gets lived
in space between
who we set out to be
and who we become.
What the coroner failed to declare
is that he died of a broken heart
trying to write the perfect poem
for the woman he couldn’t live without.
I somehow think
we’re dancing
with
the same demons.
The problem is dear one,
we never really get to know
where fate ends
and consequence begins.
The thing is, he whispers to the woman laying naked beside him,
I’m broke,
not in the I don’t have money for rent kind of broke,
but in the car’s not working and we’re stuck in a storm kind.”
I’m reflecting on
the loneliness that comes
on the mist of
winter rain.
What would be the point
of telling you I love you
when my words long ago
forgot how to find your heart.
There are things we choose not to retain
along with things that can’t be retained,
which is why her reason for leaving
must forever be sealed and stashed away.
By all appearances
they’re not a match
but who can say
when it comes to love.
When you board a plane
you ought to at least know
where the hell you’re going
and why you’re landing.
It’s not fair to blame you
for things being over,
not really,
and neither should you blame me back.
Life is lived off decisions
of the willing
and she was willing
to let him leave.
Kismet is meeting
the person you most need
when you most
need them.
The musty odor of
well read books
hits him like
intellectual smelling salts.
He hurries next door
to a used bookstore
on the random chance
he’ll fall in love.
He doesn’t know what his next new something
might be but also, isn’t worried,
ideas come to him like passing mile markers
along a fast-moving highway.
He sees shadows on the wall
well enough to know
waging war without human involvement
does not end well for humanity.
I’m listing in
an ocean of loss
no longer in control
of my desperation.
If we only proselytize about what should be done,
nothing ever happens and nothing ever changes,
and humanity slips silently into
ever increasing darkness.
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