Love Songs for the Literary Lonely-Hearts

Happy Valentine's Day or whatever.

Read Between the Lines

Scrooge is in his counting-house, counting all his money;

Pooh is down at Rabbit’s place, eating all the honey;

Pippa’s singing her sweet song, tripping through the dew;

While I’m still sitting lonely here thinking, dear, of you.

Catherine’s up to her old tricks, wandering ‘cross the moors;

Aragorn’s at the Black Gate, kicking down the doors;

The Mariner still tells his tale of bird and ship and sea;

While I’m still pining, dear, for you. Can’t you pine for me?

Atticus is in the road, sighting down the barrel;

Mary’s Apple Cart Upset left her with Yellow Peril;

Beowulf foams ‘cross the waves, plowing the whale-road;

While I’m still sending signals, dear, in hopes that you’ll decode.

Poirot strokes his long mustaches, chasing a loose end;

Viola’s dressed like a boy, but it’s just pretend;

Fred and George go out in style, kicking up a fuss

While here we be, still you and me. When will we be us?


Stopping by Woods on a Saucy Evening:

Frost/Millay Mashup

Whose lips I’ve kissed, I think you know.

My husband’s still home sleeping, though.

He will not see me stopping here,

Recalling long-forgotten beaux.

My heart throbs quietly with pain,

Rememb’ring those brave lads again.

Now they’ve all vanished, one by one:

Like flitting birds, they’ve come and gone.

Where once their summer sang through me,

Now stand I here, a frost-stripped tree.

These woods are lonely, dark and deep,

And I have promises to keep

To my new bridegroom, home asleep.

To my new bridegroom, home asleep.


The Doomed Romance of Fiction

Rochester proposed to Jane

With his wife upstairs.

Rapunzel’s storied love led her

To sacrifice her hair.

Macbeth’s sweet spouse seduced him

Into grisly, blood-soaked killing.

Dimmesdale didn’t merit love,

But Hester Prynne proved willing.

Alas, for luckless Oedepus,

Who gouged out his own eyes

Upon the revelation

That his wife’s his mom.

(Surprise!)

Oh, single friends and married friends

And those midway ‘tween labels,

Enlist in this, my festal song.

(Please harmonize, if able.)

Lift loud and long in lusty praise

And highly-stylized diction

In thanks that we, at least,

Don’t bear the doomed romance of fiction.


Ladies, Best Stay Single:

An Ironic Love Song Based on Literary Spoilers

Sir Percy’s vows to Margurite

Were based on a deception.

Darcy and Elizabeth

Embodied misconception.

While Rochester wooed gentle Jane,

He hid a wife upstairs.

If these be paragons of love,

Then, ladies, say your prayers.

Poor loving Desdomona

Was strangled by her mate.

Petruchio retained the right

To boss and roughhouse Kate.

When Juliet wed Romeo,

It ended in her death.

If these be paragons of love,

Then, girls, don’t hold your breath.

Alex/Angel (pick a name!)

Ruined Tess’s life.

Claudio shamed Hero

‘Stead of taking her to wife.

Benedick and Beatrice

Let love and hate comingle.

If these be paragons of love,

Then, ladies, best stay single.


Stuff Like This

I want to live a love song.

I want a true love story.

But all I’ve managed to pull off

Is cosplay Jo and Laurie.

I want a couple’s portrait,

In grand, dramatic tableaux.

Instead, I pose for headshots,

Profile, like Cyrano.

I want to meet in moonlight.

I want a lover’s tryst,

A face-to-face, full-armed embrace.

(I think you get the gist.)

Alas, I haven’t prospered.

Alas, I’m all alone.

Perpetually the Rosalind

To Act-One Orlando.

Instead of arms to hold me,

Instead of true-love’s kiss,

By and by, I sit and sigh,

Writing stuff like this.


I Read Too Much Ann Rule

Maybe he will notice me.

Maybe we will marry.

We’ll sit and sip on Earl Grey tea,

Enjoying sun-ripe cherries.

Maybe we will dance and sing.

Maybe we will travel.

Perhaps our whole relationship

Will messily unravel.

Perhaps he’ll dig a pit out back

In which he plans to roast me.

His fierce expression turns to stone,

As (literally) he ghosts me.

The neighbors say he’s grown remote,

Seems hard and cross and cruel.

All unobserved, he digs my grave.

(I read too much Ann Rule.)