Loving the Golfer

His logic blew by me

But sometimes love works best

If you ask few questions

He insisted a new club

Was just the ticket, would

Be the trick, make him

A winning golfer

I never resented

His ‘dates’ on the green

Wasn’t a ‘golf widow’

He joked that his ashes

Should be spread there…

Just a widow now

Thirty years, I still can’t

Give those clubs away

The man fit me to a tee*

Ā©Zelda Rene, 2021 ~ All rights reserved.


*I’m taking poetic license here—the correct phrase, I’ve learned, is “fit to a T” (I’m no golf expert eitheršŸ™‚)

All That Waste (Twiglet)

All that waste…

Trust is precious


Heart spent it

Recklessly, without

Counting cost…

Your self-centered greed

Pervaded every hour

Each ‘transaction’.

Silver, sapphires

Pearls, diamonds set

In gold: kind words

Free, refused me…

Instead, your rage.

Drawstring bag of


Love you trashed.

This loss I hold…

Bereft of dreams and

Purest, coveted


Ā©Zelda Rene, 2021 ~ All rights reserved.



Dear Body Mine (Verse Epistle)

Dear Body mine—

Sad to say, I feel betrayed.

To be fair, I don’t mind loss

Of beauty—though I was a

Head-snapper, many said so…

No, my issue’s not that shallow.

What have you done with my

Memory?Ā  Did you take it as

A trophy?Ā  Don’t say I misplaced

It—don’t you dare go there!

Buying post-it notes will bankrupt

Me…not that you care.

Worst part is what you chose

To steal—why not trunk full

Of dark-scarred recollections?

Try those on for size!

It’s the small, crucial bits I need

Every day…but can’t locate

Without stressed distress:

Passwords, appointment dates…

Phrase I spoke a moment ago?

It’s gone…but you can’t relate.

Once, I prided myself on vast

Vocab, penned and articulate…

Now I cast about, constantly

Reach for scraps of thoughts

I wish to express…

I gave up looks, strength; I own

Those choices…vision’s

Slipping, I’ll adjust I guess.

But you’ve robbed the best and

That’s a fact—I’d never sign

Your crazy contract…you’ve no

Idea, can’t conceive harsh impact.

Be off with you, then!

On my first love, I’ll depend—

Imagination’s truest…still

Most loyal friend.

Ā©Zelda Rene, 2021 ~ All rights reserved.

Exploring the poetic genre: “Verse Epistle” (Come taste the feeling)

In Theory…

Denise’s prompt:  THEORY

In theory, most people reach an age of maturity when they can measure and appreciate what’s reasonable, realistic—as opposed to what is not—and act accordingly.

Not her…she’d nursed the fantasy since childhood, and at thirty-five, by gum she was going to make it come true regardless that it was unmitigatedly insane (such is denial’s power).

She had no money, yet magically a credit card with an audacious available credit limit appeared in her hand; soon she was on a plane, then briefly settled in a hotel room, and next, riding in a taxi to the luxurious address where the ageing love of her life resided…in a “whole nuther world”.

‘Hard to believe’, she thought…no locked gates or guard dogs…the lone security employee smiled her way as though any attractive professional-appearing young woman, wearing tasteful floral dress and carrying black leather briefcase, had authorized access.

Neither was there keypad to punch in a code—she just walked in and made the mile-long, trembling-knees trek to the end of the plush-carpeted corridor where “his” elegant door to the corner suite was located; as she pressed the button which elicited melodious chimes, and waited…boulder of revelation finally crashed upon her that this journey, for all its suspect simplicity, was likely a very bad idea, would not end well but calamitously—inside her head she screamed, “why didn’t someone, something stop me??!!”

He spoke to her through the closed door, pretending he was a servant who’d relay her message—(fool! she’d have recognized his well-modulated voice even if she were deaf); he kindly directed her to leave her gifts out in the hall, and in that same beloved voice politely sent her away—her voluminous letters had meant nothing, she meant nothing to him.

Ā©Zelda Rene, 2021 ~ All rights reserved.