These poems are a reflection of my and others’ emotional journeys across the undulating landscape of affection.
Resting my gaze upon your softness
no contact—but my eyes
feel you, caress you—
The softness of your golden sheets
flowing in the late evening breeze
yet——nothing moves.
Just the rolling drum deep inside,
its pace quickens:
a driving, rushing beat.
With every moment,
with every passing breath,
The piercing calm blue of your eyes
torments my imagination with your sighs.
Let me tell you:
when you meet a friend, kindred spirit or someone special
don’t—whatever you do,
start cracking economics jokes.
Their demand is in low supply
and people’s humour for them even more;
they’ll all just say “bye”
with a rather sullen face.
You might call that a negative externality;
let me tell you: stop.
We all know of your fantastic ability
but one’s enough.
Diversification of your jokes is key
much like many things in life
and your inability to see
past macro is, um, a problem.
So next time you see your grandma or next Juliet,
please err away from trade surpluses
or anything remotely soviet.
You’ll thank me later.
Dear Lady,
Before last week we have not met
vague knowledge of each other’s existence
last week: it was all like a movie set
of two worlds in confluence.
Your shapes of before were not clear
mine were of plenty vibrant colours
I knew not what to fear
but those surreptitious emotional jewellers.
Last week, your colours matched mine
our words echoing in unison
was this some sort of crude sign
or an echo of my ambition?
Now, I wonder if you
with your golden hair and sapphire eyes
had felt these emotions too
instead, were these simply colourful lies?
I know only time will tell
I need patience, not this wicked spell!
I’m a man of nineteen
a man of forty and thirteen.
Liking beret hats
and videos of cats.
But I realised—in this world
nobody is that bold
every night is a purchase
as you sink further from the surface.
On this surface, real love is found
where feelings of tender romance compound.
In today’s transactional society
decisions require no piety.
What is this supposed to mean—
how can I unsee what has been seen?
Does love as we know it exist no more
just one-night stands making you feel empty and sore?
This world, though, I’m willing to discover
with many conspicuous secrets to uncover
I just hope in the end I’ll still be me
Still being the gallant, courteous and gentle man I would like to be.
She is like the sun
radiating the world’s love
her beauty is plain to all.
She is like the sun
glowing with joy and laughter
her smile is never stretched thin.
She is like the sun
I see her every day
too afraid to approach; will it burn?
She is like the sun
I’m waiting for a cloud to come
waiting for my turn.
But what if this chance
never fits my stance
and I’ll be forever waiting
waiting for inexistent romance.
As the night sky, eyes so deeply blue:
the evening stars I so wish to see anew;
or the earth after a rain spell
a rich, loving umber that all worries quell;
a green of the faraway emerald sea
one glance—and your soul may be free.
Beacons, shining upon the mountaintops
as the soothing embers glow
arrived—the place where time stops
and all movements start to slow.
No longer are these fireworks far away
wanting so much while having nothing to say
as these gems float towards
your heart, to the sky, upwards
there—once this sumptuous sight you meet
Heaven, your dreams, euphoria—all compete.
In a new strange land
with new strange people
wagging strange tongues;
none of it was planned.
But over time, only a few weeks
they are not so strange, they’re closer
warm-hearted, loving and witty
they’re what every lost person seeks.
Each beautiful in their own way
squares in a round world
inspiring me to do more—to write here
there’s only two words I can say.
The people you surround yourself with
are the people you become.
You are a smith,
you are the destined sum
of all their qualities and weaknesses.
Family is not something to choose:
do remember, the angels are your witnesses,
they need not search for clues.
If your friends are warm-hearted
you will be kind;
if they are, alas, narrow-minded
to beauty, you will be blind.
If they radiate with affection
you will have love to give;
Theirs is the direction
your existence you will live.
I write this poem
in a place of art
a place of love
of tears,
of long-lived years
and a great many dreams
where people come together
each day
without fail,
we come together.
Come together
to come home.
To my friends:
now, a new chapter begins.
You, who have stood by me
while all else deserted;
You, who could see
what really mattered.
Those of you I joked around with
or engaged in staring matches
being normal: a myth…
You, who also had sweat patches.
Then there were those closer;
more than just friends
those to be hugged tighter (or pushed further)
to steer clear or worship as godsends.
The Beethovens and Puccinis
astounding, so incredibly talented
others, as dry as ten-day grissinis
or like ancient blades—blunted.
Peculiar, bizarre or perplexed
your faces have been;
while I was not vexed
some things cannot be unseen.
The future world leaders
and the future garbage men
all learned literary readers
some wishing they said “amen”.
The party animals
with seemingly bottomless bladders
others, mammalian cannibals
starting already to climb career ladders.
To be very brief, indeed,
it matters not whence you come
or what devils you believe in;
it’s the shared experiences:
those are second to none
and the cameras we have smiled in
putting aside our differences.
I have a message unsmall:
I love you all.