Short Poetry (2 liners) English

Nothing Complacent......

Love is in everything. It weaves through music, through oil on canvas, is speaks through film, it pursues every last syllable flowing through poetry, is glints in tears of joy, whines in sighs of loneliness, and last but not least, it searches infinitely to find itself in someone else. Love is the most powerfully vibrant color in the world— but it can also be invisible.

Short Poetry (2 liners) English

When I saw my future love, just a fawn grazing the beaches of Southern France in search of sunny skies and a tan, I didn’t see love. I was blinded by a bevy of distractions so thick and calloused that not even exotic grains of sand sifting through the stardust of the universe to land and crack and crumble into stretches met with water could open my eyes to her.

She wore one of those fantastically large sun hats that stretched so far it almost covered her whole body. I was on a tour promoting a novella of short stories about fellow men and women who had found themselves in work and success—yet not a parable of love graced the pages. I guess, perhaps, I had fallen accustomed to the type lives I had concocted, too.

A few days off from ambling between conversations over malbec, cab and merlot brought me down to Marseille, which can be quite nice for those looking to escape. But I would learn in due time there was something I was there to find.

“Hello,”—is how she started, followed by, “I believe you’re the author, Candem Lisle?” She removed her sunglasses and wayfarers.

“Yeah,”—is the best I could fumble through in return, “Are you from one of the Paris press junkets?”

“No? In fact, I think your wit is dry enough to parch a fish and your last book was quite boring.” She slapped across the face, verbally. I wrote her off.

“Ah, well, each is entitled to their opinion. Many bought the book, however, mind you.”

“Ah, well, each is entitled to their opinion. Many bought the book, however, mind you.”

“People buy tickets for bad movies all the time.” She was sharp, which I liked too much , but admiring a sabre was different than having one at your throat. At this point my long hair was growing beaten by the sun, which pinched heartily on my legs, arms and neck.

“Perhaps it would be best if I go inside for a drink.”

She smirked, “Okay, first round is on you.”—which irked me a little bit, to be honest, but what else was I doing?

It was at the end of her third Moscow Mule that she broke into this beautiful kind of laughter I’d sooner associate with song than atonal banter. I, too, had loosened up a bit.

“Where’d you learn how to laugh like that?”

“What do you mean? That’s how I am.”—And simply put, that was one of the most endearing things I had ever heard.

“One day you should come back to Paris and ask all the useless questions. You’re far more entertaining than those dumb fiends. The irony of them calling anything blasé, sheesh.” We both laughed.

She took her dessert spoon and twirled it in the air like she was spindling pasta, “You know what the problem with your book is?”

Story's/Poems In Rhyme

I shrugged, “Indulge me.”

“All those success stories—no one fails.” “I’m sorry? The book is about success—“

“Yeah, but nobody just falls flat. Nobody even just settles for being complacent. You know much that happens?” She rolled her eyes.

“Well, this is meant to inspire. People want to know that the desirable, ‘it’ is possible for them.”

“Everybody knows that, though. That’s why we’re all racing for it. You gotta show that there’s people just like them who have gotten somewhere…but maybe not quite where they’re going. People like that. If people wanted a bunch of classic superhero stories, they’d just turn on the cooking channel where the meals always come out right.”

She had broken my world; and when you find a woman like that…you chase her as hard as you can. She saw it in my eyes.

“Make sure you’re not one of those stories. I don’t have room for anything ‘complacent.’”