Jane Meyer Poems

<font color=darkviolet>Another one for Cassandra.

15 minutes
spent playing the guitar,
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<font color=darkviolet>The air between us is taut
as a bow strung
ready to fire
given the slightest provocation.
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<font color=darkviolet>As women,
why are we never satisfied?
If our hair is brown,
we want blonde.
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<font color=darkviolet>Don’t mistake me for a brat,
For I’m certainly not that.
But I do like people to pay attention,
When I have something I’d like to mention.
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“Weekend”—how I scoff at that archaic term,
I’m not sure—but I think
it refers to a time many days past
when periods of work were measured
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<font color=darkviolet>I am an artist,
but I’m not a painter.
I’m not one who makes a canvas beautiful,
but my smock and face a mess.
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<font color=darkviolet>The woods are like a symphony
playing their ever-lasting song.
To some it’s just cacophony,
but for me it is never wrong.
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<font color=darkviolet>This came to me as a song and it is written as a song, so use your imagination. I’ll edit if I ever find the songs that I stole the tune from.

I won’t give in.
You can’t break me.
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<font color=darkviolet>“There’s something I want to tell you,
and I’ve been waiting to do it in person.
So I think I should say it now,
‘ case things between us should ever worsen.
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