by Ken Harnisch

Serendipitous rainfall
Removed me
From the temptation to lie
Again in the sun

She sees through me anyway
I’m thinking, and it pains
Her that I can be so elaborate
About a story we both know to be untrue

But there is fascination for the weave itself
The intricate cross-stitches as
I lay character upon character
And paint scenes that
Leonardo at his best couldn’t
Press to canvass.

What’s the use, she seems to
Say, with her hurt and baleful eyes
Why not just tell the truth
And be done with it, and me

Ah, but that’s the rub, isn’t it?
Finding someone like her
Who is entranced by thrice told myths
Is not so easy in this jaded world
And I have to admit, the way
She cocks both eyes and ears
So raptly when I speak
Makes me want some
Of what she sees in me to be real

But to tell that truth, I’d have to lie again
And then there’s this:
The truth can be so bland
To a story-telling man.


Posted on 06/03/2010
Copyright © 2021 Ken Harnisch

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Tom Goss on 06/04/10 at 03:15 PM

I feel this one is strong with the force! Enjoyed.

Posted by Leonard M Hawkes on 06/05/10 at 04:28 AM

"Oh what a tangled web we weave . . . . " very nice.

Posted by Joan Serratelli on 06/06/10 at 11:37 AM

The last stanza said it all- thanks

Posted by Alison McKenzie on 06/08/10 at 04:35 AM

Heh. I see her. I see you too. So lovely!!

Posted by Glenn Currier on 06/10/10 at 10:04 PM

Oh, I can certainly how someone would be fascinated with this guy and whatever truth he would tell in whatever way he chose to tell it. Ah, to be able to tell a story - what a gift! Some of the best Masters have told their truths in stories. Thanks for this lovely weave, Ken.

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