Romance Rubaiyat - Poem by Jonathan ROBIN
Two's company, three's crowd, or so most say
so here we write forever and a day
upon love and Romance try every angle
to dangle reasons for hearts' interplay.
Each leap year to three hundred thirty three
add thirty three, then woman will with glee
propose what devil man might else avoid,
his 666 has surely run astray.
Romance draws from response to stimulate,
and span two dreams’ convergence, second state,
meets live with love to spurn Time’s rendezvous,
ignoring jigsaw mind-set’s zigzag gait.
Love is link ‘pheronomic’ catalyzed,
Romance is ritual, hopes realized,
what complicated seemed is later seen
as simple steps towards goal undisguised.
Romance: a link between ‘pretend’ ‘extend’,
where end to means is sometimes means to end,
where current flow re_volts as feelings churn,
though real solutions may seem round the bend.
If whirlwind is Romance see dance with fast
advance, retreat before decision’s cast
upon love’s winds which often after time
turn zephyr into cyclone's whirlwind blast.
Festina lente, hasten slowly, Fate
may be amused when we anticipate
the way the dice is rolled a turn or two,
but should turn guilty temptor from gilt gate.
Romance is all about “anticipate”
while love is passion, lessons learned too late
may heighten disillusion when heart’s chart
from artless spins to envy, hope to hate.
Romance is bed of roses for the mind,
Love, blind, this channels nearness, distance pined,
Romance in polychrome makes awesome write
yet turns to empty rite with motives blind.
Be wary of presumption, stretching luck,
too few are called where most, lame, come unstuck,
identify the slipstream tipping crown,
avoid spin drown in cyclone vortex suck.
Oft man and maid confuse Romance and Love,
to summon images of turtle dove,
of partnership above Life's passing years,
no tears may know, advancing hand in glove.
Yet when to test of time is marriage put
Man calls both head and tail despite the foot
which in his mouth so often shows he lies
while maid’s mascara tears soon turns to soot.
She cares for kids, where he kids, cares to rest
before some sport, while she supports the rest,
works both from nine to five and five to nine.
He sports bright ties, light ties prefers the best!
She looks ahead while he, as head, looks on
good looks, which in her book is more than wrong,
regretting grass seems greener seen through fence,
defence of dreams is sold short, for a song.
He wields the axe, while she bears forty whacks,
He thinks he wears the trousers though he slacks,
He waxes wroth he ‘needs’, she kneeds the wax
fills cracks, unshackles, builds long lasting shacks.
He spares to live, she ever lives to share.
He won’t forgive, she blossoms everywhere
needs harmony not tomb to bloom, bear fruit,
He spi[t]es for wayfare, she, sprite, lights way fair!
He fields the work, while she must work the fields.
She feels the pinch, while he both pinches, feels.
She earns her keep while he her earnings keeps,
She yields the count, while he, he counts the yields!
He says his friction's fiction, she replies
love which once shone miraculous breeds sighs
alongside stress from sacrifice, neglect,
that underline pain's suffering, vain cries.
He’d lay the rules and rule the lays. Some say
unbalanced are the scales! On Judgement Day,
when all are weighed he’s wanting found withal,
while she’s a paragon, he’s gone astray!
She swears to honour, cherish and obey,
while he of harem dreams, as Pasha, Bey,
what’s worth his plot of earth if one fine day
parthenogenisis may come to stay?
If SHE could autoreproduce or clone,
If SHE the race continued all alone,
what trace would HE retain who, vain, sees end
as master, losing face, to lying prone?
If HE, who least believes, leaves set as stone,
If HE, who most receives, heaves righteous moan
then Mona Lisa sentence might suspend
and spare the rib that cuts her to the bone.
For Woman is the source, the stream, the flow,
SHE bends where HE may break when strong winds blow,
HE who would rule the cradle seldom takes
sufficient time to nurture Nature, know
Romance may be spun out till kingdom come,
is not a cobweb to entice the dumb,
led on through love to larder poorly stocked,
who seeking cake discover acrid crumb.
But what to love is inside or is out?
for Time’s dimension love would do without,
the signpost seen may blow now east now west,
crow heeds no fixed road stop sign roundabout.
Though rhyme and reason often are withheld
till time and season pass, their winter knelled,
sustained romance essential is where heart
would chart affection through tomorrow welled.
Who would evolve must choose from many doors,
each offers either fame or blame, doom draws,
each offers health or wealth, advance or pause,
must think the link between effect and cause.
What love is, what romance, though, who foresees?
What choice reject, what opportunities
take for, or take as, granted, who can tell?
Time twists or undertows the flows men seize.
What matters and to whom? What gravities
matter patter pater mater tease,
conundrums which a life-long paradox
entertains until all memories
are atomised upon a karmic breeze,
blown willy-nilly till, like honeyed bees,
they bumble on towards a homely hive,
they stumble on till patterns by degrees
from angles wide frame focus, offer keys.
For who between the lines can read, chalk, cheese,
discerns, the waft and weft of substance, learns
to draw the line dividing wood from trees.
So grasp Romance’s finger as it writes,
wait not love’s Time, tune tide to timing, flights
of fancy twin with opportunity
which may not seed again. Feed dreams’ delights!
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