An Imperfect Love Poem

I like tall, dark and handsome — Errol Flynn

when I was a young girl: that wicked grin

as Robin or pirate, his sword flashing.

For also, of course, they must be dashing.

Until, my love, I met you, when older.

True, in your own way there was none bolder,

but in manner less dashing than abrupt.

And your height had suffered an interrupt

to be on the same level as my own.

White-haired and blue-eyed — still, how those eyes shone.

With our matching heights just right for kissing,

I soon decided nothing was missing.

By now, sweet soul, though you've left me in death,

your beauty sustains me to my last breath.

Prompt 22 for 'Poems in April' at 'imaginary garden with live toads' is to write a perfect love poem, hopefully in formal verse.  Mine is an imperfect Clarian sonnet, with 10-syllable lines rather than strict iambic pentameter. The title also refers to the imperfections of the beloved against 'tall, dark and handsome' standards. Lastly, I've written so many serious love poems, there wasn't much left to me now except to go a bit against the grain. The photo is from my 60th birthday party, five years after we married.

High Care

I try to recreate a homely feel

within the nursing home. It isn’t real

and their new schedules take you when I leave.

It is the very contrast makes us grieve —

this isn’t home. Nor is the old home now

without you. I would bring you back — but how?

I must surrender you to better care

than I can give, although it seems unfair

and you believe I have abandoned you.

In fact it was the only thing to do.

I want to smile, not weep when I am here

visiting you. Let’s find some new joy, dear

for still we’re never one whole day apart,

and surely home is in the other’s heart?

A response to the dVerse FormForAll prompt: Clarian Sonnets, 
though written too late to be included in the line-up there.

Also linking to the dVerse 2019 Sonnet Challenge.

The Clarian Sonnet is my favourite kind of sonnet – though the Neruda-style free verse sonnet runs it close. (Which is interesting, as the one is so modern, the other so classic.) The Clarian seems to me somehow less of a virtuoso performance than the Shakespearian, Petrarchan or Spenserian, so that the reader's focus is hopefully more on what is said than how it is said. In the others, even the very best of them, my attention is split equally between both. I love playing with form, but I like it to be in the service of – even subservient to – meaning.