Life is a strange thing: we’ve all been thrust into it without having much say, and sometimes events seem to be whirling around so quickly we hardly have time to breathe. The same as you, I’ve been around for a while now—and at times the happenings around me have compelled me to put them down upon paper, and whatever this digital ‘paper’ is.
Writing letters,
flashbacks to a previous life
one of love, lots of it.
Gradual deterioration, too
A car whose tank went amber
next month was empty.
Writing letters,
seeing the memories
float before me
out of the page.
Nostalgia, lots of it
But no reluctance
nor regret.
Writing letters,
an agèd end,
a new beginning.
A furrowed brow
with racing heart
for writing letters
brings along
a new start.
Folded in stacks,
hanging on wires
rolled up socks
into shapes like tires.
Stiff and lonely
yet fully coloured
bright pastels
left abandoned,
deep blacks
like drawing pencils
or a blunt axe.
But despair no more!
For life is breathed in
to these clothes once more;
when they’re worn
they’re no longer forlorn.
Their colours radiate
as if newly born
their beauty’s innate.
Entirely different, if they were
simply left hanging on those hooks
waiting for monsieur.
Now it’s time to write about her;
quick, while she’s asleep!
She knows not of the blur
my life has become when I weep.
Her charcoal hair holds a starry sheen
like Snow White, but not a fairytale.
You could say I’m living a dream,
but the slumber ship has yet to set sail.
The face that is fairest of them all
full of life, full of light
like springtime blooms beside a waterfall;
a breathtaking sight.
I could look at it for eternity and then some
for she would be caught in a loving embrace
in a place where nothing needs to be done
and all speed diminishes in pace.
Is this what I seek?
A desperate desire,
a search for whom to speak?
A fantastical fabrication;
product of my imagination.
It working, I cannot see
All I can ask of you
is to forgive me.
Don’t fret
I remember what you said
and the way you looked
the last time we met.
Every detail of every glance
Yours, thoughtful, patient interest
Mine, the same, but with a dance
Hidden deep within my chest.
Your life, full of accomplishments
A gobsmacking list of achievements
Mine, a bit more restrained
One destiny has not yet ordained.
There aren’t many things I can do
Take a picture, write a poem or two
While you, it seems
have already fulfilled your dreams.
Someone to look up to, be inspired by
Not even knowing you helped me fly.
As we enter week three,
there is not much left to see.
My hands are rubbed raw;
my nails, there is nothing left to gnaw.
Just rice in the pantry,
maybe some spaghetti…
My appetite is paltry,
and our conversations are petty.
There is some positivity:
I have plenty of ink.
Though, at times, mediocre creativity
to practice doublethink.
I look into her eyes:
they are like a sunlit forest,
a terrestrial Lothlorien.
Green and brown,
rich, lively earthly hues
I’m already lost in them, to be honest.
My breath comes out in sighs,
she is smiling:
a real comedienne.
Moments like these
could last forever;
and in a way, they do.
Forever on replay
in my mind,
if only, if only she knew.
She won’t ask
and I won’t tell her.
How could you?
You can’t say
that every second
since that fateful day
I’ve been wanting to tell you
that what I feel is true.
It’s a shame that moment never happened;
you were never that close.
Your eyes, only distant;
not glancing my way,
not even for an instant.
On a picture I hold
as my hands tremble.
At least the tears, I mumble,
wash away the dust as they tumble.
‘Tis strange, this predicament of isolation.
Never have such attempts been made
to lock down an entire nation;
for times have gone past the nascent state of aid.
“Unprecedented” is said on every frequency,
promptly followed by “don’t panic”;
only guess what people do: hoard greedily,
descending rapidly into a state of manic.
A far cry from times when this was “just a flu”;
now, the crematoriums are packed full.
There is no place left to queue;
simply pronouncing the death count is a mouthful.
In many places, no time for mourning
for it is a war in peacetime.
Eventually, hopefully, this will bring a new morning
when the disease will be past its prime.
But that day seems indeed a long way off;
a glimmer, a glint at the end of the tunnel.
These thoughts arrive as I stifle a cough;
it is time to rest my head upon the flannel
and spare a thought for those
whose times are more morose.
An azure-blue sky
so bright, shining.
The sun set into it,
like a gem,
a glowing amber,
radiating heat,
radiating life.
And the bumblebees bumble by bushes
looking lost.
But this is what we think.
With our big societies,
rich civilisations, think.
A glimpse of a bright car
on the road
a van, flashing lights.
Oh no, I think.
Not again.
Not here.
Screeching suddenly, it stops.
Suited-up silhouettes sprinting.
A rush,
a deathly urgency.
Life is in slow motion
now even more so
like pressing ‘rewind’
on a remote with no batteries.
A person, on a stretcher
comes out.
The masks and gloves
slam doors
and all of it
is over.
As quickly as it began.
That’s life
or what remains of it
under quarantine.
I’m not tired
I’m wide awake.
With eyes bulging
and adrenaline rushing
sleep is no option to make.
I’d go flying,
But I have no plane
I’d start reading
But the sentences are too long.
I’m sitting,
not lying down.
Upright, back straight
or that’s what I think.
Glancing at the downy duvet,
the plump pillows,
the mellow mattress
I reflect.
Is this what I want?
To melt into its supple embrace?
But I’m not tired!
I won’t sleep.
I’ll conquer the world
become President
or an astronaut!
Tomorrow.