Image result for two lovers on a walk in renaissance painting

There was a conversation I had—

Superficial when I laughed;

Sincere, when I was sad.

I’m thinking, where is this conversation going?

Why do I hang between ignorance and knowing?

I’m sorry I don’t understand the poem.

Why is life a conversation,

Suddenly in the middle, and never done?

Either I agree or disagree,

And then, after that, do I have to reply?

Why did I chuckle? Who am I?

Why is silence so uncomfortable?

I’m not forthcoming. Shame makes me dull.

I didn’t pick this conversation. I never do.

Otherwise it feels like someone’s coming after you.

People are great! But I hate these halting talks,

And the wordy observations we make on our walks.

If you only knew how I hate this. The full

Rot of it all. Rosalinda? Hey. Are you comfortable?



  1. maryangeladouglas said,

    November 28, 2019 at 4:35 pm

    I can’t help but admire all the Rosalinda poems. They have such a quaint but haunting unusual quality of existing at the same time in the distant past and in the current moment, time turning yet turning back on the name of Rosalinda.

    • thomasbrady said,

      November 29, 2019 at 5:32 pm

      She almost always enters my poems unasked, unbidden. She rescues my poems sometimes, when I’m about to give up. It’s very strange.

      • November 30, 2019 at 12:01 am

        So . . . Who is Rosalinda?

        • thomasbrady said,

          November 30, 2019 at 4:38 pm

          I’m glad you asked that, Gary. Her real name is not Rosalinda. I don’t know that she has a real name. She may not have a real name, except in the poems, where her name is, of course, also not real. Not real plus not real equals real. My Rosalinda. I only think of her when I write poems, which, I sometimes believe, is the only place my thoughts actually reside, and can be seen. Otherwise I’m pretty stupid.

      • maryangeladouglas said,

        December 1, 2019 at 5:45 pm

        Rosalinda rescuing poems makes a pleasant music.

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