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Fay Slimm

(Ageless. / in Cornwall U.K.)

Chances For Love.


Not often the chances happen our way
In a life so defined as 'successful'.
Working demands exclusivity today.
Energy's sapped, thus Love feels resentful.
Momentary snatches, where given time
So meagrely measured, makes loving fade.
Dozens of duties see Love last in line,
One of the biggest mistakes ever made!
Affection needs nurturing - tenderness
Given by sound application to Love
Results in contentment, which more or less
Assures a relationship rises above
Uncaring neglect, resulting in tears.
Chances not taken get lost over years.

Submitted: Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Edited: Wednesday, September 24, 2008

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Comments about this poem (Chances For Love. by Fay Slimm )

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  • Tess Rockenstire (10/8/2008 6:01:00 PM)

    Fay you are speaking in truth here. We should take care 'love' just in the same manners we take care our jobs or our garden..it needs to be nurtured before it falls away bec. of neglect. Thanks for reminding us. (Report) Reply

  • Rakhi Jayashankar (10/1/2008 2:33:00 AM)

    feel love to gve love
    get contented to feel love
    be open to your heart
    'Not often the chances happen our way'
    nice work 10 (Report) Reply

  • Kathleen West (9/25/2008 9:36:00 AM)

    So many times success is measured by material things, and not by the time we put into those relationships that mean the most to us. Time has a way of going by quickly if we don't snatch opportunities that are presented to us. Your beautiful poem of this. Kathy (Report) Reply

  • Carl Harris (9/24/2008 1:56:00 PM)

    One of the most interesting things said about good poetry is that it communicates to the reader, Fay, and your fine poem communicates very well. How many times have we over the years ever locked eyes with a stranger of the opposite sex at a crowded train station, a busy airport, or even in a shopping Mall, and let that golden chance slip away into the oblivion of memory? Your poem denotes our hectic pace of life these days very well, where love, or rather, tending to it, winds up on the back burner of life. We pay terribly for those chances not taken, and for the love in our possession not properly tended. In fact, we are haunted the rest of our lives by it, and your superb poem points that out very well. Carl. (Report) Reply

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