Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: One Last Riddle…

to flickr riddlers by Jef Safi

to flickr riddlers by Jef Safi

Six names were hidden
At the start of this quest

One has been found
But what of the rest?

First names and last names
Were tumbled like laundry

Connections were hidden
In the original quandary.

Many a lady is named as was guessed
But only one angel with that name was blessed

A secret of love may never be known
The depth of devotion may never be shown

But in a poem silly, sent out in the night
A secret lover revealed the name of his delight

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconSo, what’s the name of our poet from Portland’s delight? In trying to solve “One Last Riddle” I started the search for an angel’s name. Interestingly, I discovered that Barachiel  is the angel of blessings; the go-to intermediary for pursuits pertaining to relationships, family, friends or work. While this may not be the solution, it never hurts to ask for a little help, right? 

Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: Again Haiku

Write

Write

We don’t talk any
more. I wish we would. There’s a
lot more to say. But
not here and not now.
I’m not going to write a
haiku for the world
to see.

 

Missed Connections are filled with good, bad, and inadvertently-constructed haiku. Did you write one? Did you find one? Did you respond to one? Sieze the here and now and email the link to Lovelorn Poets. We’ll preserve those wishes and words  for all eternity.

Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: You Are My Missed Connection

Untitled by katiecooperx

Untitled by katiecooperx

 

Missed Connections in Portland

You Are My Missed Connection

Steel cables stretch across the desert floor….relief dips in the eighties. There are visions of Carrot Top dancing in my head…dancing and dancing…
I think I can hear it now, the distant buzz of those neon signs you talked so much about.

I think I’m losing my mind.
Put on a brave face kid. Sleep is for the weak he said,
those sad beautiful eyes fixed on mine.
God, those eyes…
Who’s weak now? I never thought I’d live to see the day.
You were supposed to be invincible. You promised you would be okay.

What the fuck do I do now?
I miss that smoke filled car. I remember the way your delicate tracks felt beneath my fingertips, the way my chest would ache as I’d choke back the tears… the way my touch could diminish that ego you held so dear.
I miss the wandering fingertips, I miss your sweet and gentle kiss.
I miss feeling so small and fragile in your arms, the arms that I always thought would be waiting there to keep me safe. I miss being vulnerable.

I miss you being the smoke, no…
I miss you being MY smoke.
I remember watching as you rose to the ceiling, I remember the fleeting but inevitable feeling in my heart right before you slipped through the cracks…the emptiness I feel now, just an awful reminder that I could have pulled you back.

I can’t stop wondering what would have happened,
what could have happened…
I can’t accept that it doesn’t even matter anymore.

I would give anything.
Anything. I don’t know why I didn’t stay the whole night through, I don’t think I’ll ever know. I don’t think I’ll ever stop asking myself. I should have held you closer, kissed you more… I should have let you in. I know that now…

I would have hopped on that train, you know it’s true.
No destination, no plans …It would have been me and you.
But you said you would be okay.

You said you would be okay….

What I wouldn’t give to hear you whisper in my ear one last time,
“I love the person I become when I’m with you”
All I wanted was for it to be real.
And now it’s too late, it’s too late to tell you that I know it was, to tell you that I’m here.
I’m lost without you. Please know…
I love you, I do

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconHer Two Cents

In a sea of messages selling sex, NSA hook-ups, locker-room fantasies, rants against humanity, and inebriated ramblings crafted hastily in the early hours of the day, it’s all too easy to pass-over a real message, written by a real person, about something terribly tragic and terribly real. We often hear and say the words, “I’ll be ok.” and we hold them to be true until the day comes when they no longer are.

Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: First Date

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconHer Two Cents

The weekend is here and that means it’s time for the mating and dating rituals of the single (and single-minded) to begin! Hopefully your endeavors in bringing sexy back work out better than this sad story from Portlandia. Remember, just because plentyofish/okcupid/zoosk/eHarmony says you’re “a perfect match” doesn’t mean it’s true! Consolation prize? You might just get some good material for a story that you can post to missed connections. Cheers! :-)

Missed Connections in Portland

First Date

beauty

First Date

“We live in a world fueled by illusions.” I said. “People just believe whatever is necessary to continue living as selfishly as they can. They don’t want truth, they want what feels good. They want the fog, not the light”

“I like ice cream and sand castles and my best friend is a balloon.” she said.

“Yup.” I said. Seriously hoping, but very much unsure, that she was being sarcastic.

“I know what you mean, but can you blame people for that?” She said.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.” I said.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” She said.

“I guess you can’t blame people for coping with what can be a very brutal world…I think that people are a mix. Some beautiful and shining most of the time and some ugly and manipulative most of the time, most are somewhere in the middle….I’ve experienced too much of the harsh side.” I said. “But I can’t live my life that way. I have to believe that people are mostly good. If I didn’t, I might as well curl up and die.”

Her eyes kind of glazed over.

“I thought we were gonna talk about favorite drinks and tell stupid jokes.” She said.

“Whiskey and coke, and how many Paul Walker look-alikes does it take to drive…..”

“Ahhh…..toooo soooon.” She said, with genuine concern.

“Really? Do you know how many other people died on that day?” I said.

“No, but I bet you’re gonna tell me.” She said.

“155,000″ I said. “Why does this guy matter?”

“Well, he’s famous, he’s rich, and he’s hot.” She said. “What’s the matter, you jealous?”

“No, I’m none of those things but I don’t want to be any of those things either. He captures their attention because they are told to pay attention to him.” I said. “People don’t think for themselves, they are told what to feel, how to feel, and what to pay attention too. This is what matters. I overheard a couple in line at the store talking about him like they knew him. Its wild…why are they mourning a stranger and not the 155,000 others? Do we worship media so much that we have actually tricked ourselves into believing that these people are intimate parts of our lives? Something is terribly wrong with all of this….people are actually living these illusions, everyday.”

“You think too much.” She said, her posture becoming defensive. “And you’re obviously not rich.”

Uh-Oh, I thought, maybe she knows Paul Walker.

“Maybe you don’t think enough.” I said. “And how do you know I am not rich?”
“Because you’re not, look at you.” She said, her face now resembling an exasperated cartoon.

Pause.

Silence.

I wanted to like her.

I was very quickly not liking her.

When I met her at the grocery store, she seemed so good hearted and smart. But here and now, she just seemed shallow and uninteresting. I realized that I had done it again, I had taken what she said when we met and made it into what I wanted it to be, instead of the nonsense that it actually was. I’ve done this before. Not often, but its happened.

Why?

I don’t know. The deepest attraction for me is in the mind and personality. I have to be at least somewhat physically attracted to a woman, but to really be invested there has to be a light on somewhere. A real connection. Its so hard to find, so rare, and I crave it so badly, that I create it for myself just to fill the void. I was living my own illusion!!!!

“Where are you from?” I said.

“Lake Oswego.” She said.

I started laughing. And I couldn’t stop. I had beer dripping out of my nose by the end of it. I felt like a total and complete asshole, but I couldn’t for the life of me stop. Her face became confused and then curious and then angry, but that just made me laugh harder.

She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. Then she said, pretending to have just received a text, “I have to go, thanks for the drink, dick.” I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t stop laughing. I managed to sqeak out “I’m Sorry!!!! I have a condition!!!” as she marched away almost tripping over her high heels, to be driven home fast and furiously by the ghost of Paul Walker.

Dating is hard :)

Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: Inhaling Her Fog

the fighter returns (reprise, for missy)

the fighter returns (reprise, for missy) by jamelah

Missed Connections in Portland

Inhaling Her Fog

We stood under the rain drops and exchanged glances.
She was the most beautiful silent moment I’ve ever had.
Regaining sanity we found cover under the shelter.
I said hi, she said hi.
The lights appeared, and the carriage opened it’s doors.
She smiled and told me it was nice standing with me to share the loneliness of the evening cold.
Her fog lingered in the air as she boarded, and I stood like a little kid who just saw their first firework, taking in the few simple seconds with her.
Then I realized that my complete enamored heart, she’d taken with her.
I stood stunned, shot by an arrow, and I just waved her goodnight.
I watched the red lights turn left into the night.
Then I panicked.
I forgot to ask her what her favorite color was, and her favorite ice cream, and favorite shirt, and if she knew about the coffee shop down the street selling ridiculously good breakfast till 2pm.
She took her name too.
I lost her while I was busy inhaling her fog.
I know I may have had only a brief moment with her presence.
But I will wear the moment on me perhaps forever, because she is the fairy tail I will tell my grandchildren.
She is the never turn your back on a hint of fate.
I mostly just want to thank her because I know realistically, she only comes once in a lifetime.
And I am ok with that, I know Cupids arrow is a scar only some get to tell about.

 

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconHer Two Cents

It’s Friday afternoon, and in my corner of he world it’s finally warming up. The snow is melting, the ice shrinking into little glossy pools, and the birds have returned to their favorite branches. Is spring in the air? Is love in the air? Is that Cupid finally setting out on her northern migration? Scars can only occur when the body isn’t covered in sufficient armor, and right now, that’s a reasonable risk to take for the joy of uncovering.