These poems are a reflection of my and others’ emotional journeys across the undulating landscape of affection.
It was naïve beyond belief
I thought our love was to stay;
Nor could I imagine the relief
When you finally went away.
Now, looking upon new horizons:
with unknown places left to explore.
I will avoid drawing comparisons:
it will be a new start, nothing more.
Life’s many facets
discussed and examined
not to mention religious tenets
who were rightfully refuted.
All this while the summer breeze
refreshes these moving thoughts
reminds me to freeze
and enjoy these resplendent sights.
Speaking in riddles
easy it would be
if this orchestra of fiddles
showed me how to see
and indeed how to know, how to tell
a riddle from a fiddle
and showed me how to stop the dilly-daddle.
So many questions in my mind
who knows what answers we’ll find
more questions that devour from within
not knowing what direction to go in.
Many months ago,
a large bonfire was lit
upon the dust and ashes
of events that preceded it.
A loving, tender warmth
radiating from within;
but the erratic, flying sparks
distracted; instead of a grin
there was confusion, worry
a fear, perhaps, of not knowing when and where to begin.
Or when to end.
Over time, this bonfire coughed and wheezed,
the months took their toll;
transformed from luminous explosions
to almost being extinguished whole.
Yet it endured.
Its embers, glowing in the shadows,
that warmth from them radiated.
Until, one day
be it today,
it has been rekindled.
It has come out of the corners
to once again take centre stage
as I try to turn a life’s page,
it has taken on many colours.
Alas, help it, I will, to grow.
For there is something she ought to know.
Although even myself, I am not sure
whether this uncertainty has a cure.
Only time will tell
whether this sentiment upon which I dwell
should be shared
or as it was until now,
be left as an unattended bonfire:
source of much internal ire.
Reflecting upon the tenderness of years past
ones lived through emotion alone
now that our love does not everlast
like a beautiful, solid, stable statue: now overgrown.
Once mighty, strong, full of artistic wit
already dethroned from its might
today, a weedy, thorny pit
a rather grim and sombre sight.
A thorn in my side, ever it bleeds
remembering you draws my energy
makes worthless my romantic deeds
long time past, we were in synergy.
Can’t thy leeches never leave?
Go into the abyss of time
something you managed to achieve
a feeling, gloriously sublime.
Yet you haunt me still
as I look into this flower’s eyes.
A new future, build I will
of splendour and affection will arise
with or without your aid
my memory of you will fade
as this beautiful lady blooms
with all her sweet perfumes
without your pesky fumes,
a new life proudly resumes.
Every word of every sentence,
each phrase of every breath
in rough parlance
not just a shibboleth.
In the pauses, the silent air
sits still, not even a quiver
all truth is laid bare
or of it just a sliver.
In those breaks of the wordy flow,
our minds fill in the gaps
of this conversational gateau;
these ill-fitting fillings, perhaps,
make the discussion blow.
Thinking something different
some, things that are abhorrent
others, simply an acknowledgement,
but they are unaware
that each has their own affair
(there is nothing to compare)
since our thoughts are so unlike
yet our exchange so alike.
No, I have not forgotten anything
to your voice, there was a ring;
nor the way your smile used to sing
as you sat there opposite.
There was more between us to admit
your look, for my emotions a conduit
to higher, deeper words inside
as our universes used to collide
emotions words could not describe.
With a sorry, I concede
it lasted longer than agreed.
No longer was I able to read
all your secret and obvious signs;
then, I knew, that this defines
and most certainly undermines
what was left of the beauty;
we realised it was not our duty
to tend to our tender amity.
A howling whirlwind
just as you open the door
“what’s wrong” is not a good question
nor was it the best decision
to ask what’s going on
behind the door.
Upon it, wheels and locks
like on castles, or in clocks;
intricate machinery, thick iron
making your stomach churn.
Lest we forget
no tools are needed yet
it is with simple words,
(human musical chords)
the bars fall loose
slowly shattering
with a shrill shriek.
You’ve opened Pandora’s box:
what on earth do you seek?
Couldn’t you have left her alone,
left her troubles her own?
Safely stored away
kept deep within
kept deep at bay.
On second thought
except those moments when she sought
seclusion, running away from her fears,
in a corner, unable to stop the tears.
When the world crumbles,
its supporting pillars tumble.
Halt!—
A ray of light
stops the rubble falling
a new hope is calling
a rushing spirit
a light glowing bright neon
for you’ve asked
“what’s going on?”
Be aware of a likely torrent
muddy, stained memories
bloody, pained—no longer secretive
like a nostalgic fugitive.
Fill your soul with empathy before
and she will be grateful for evermore.
This one fight will be won
For you’ve asked what’s going on,
you’ve had to implore,
what’s going on behind the door?
This poem is a continuation of or ‘sequel’ to the original If only she knew.
Holding that strip of canvas
a faint, distant smile.
Plain to see—a result
of weeks’ dedication;
wherefore has this been made?
The colours are so beautiful too—
if only she knew.
Steps back, a lady depicted
bright, ripe colours
fertile, lush greens
with deep, rich umber
and glowing blue;
if only she knew.
The cloth falls onto the ground,
a mind of its own.
But from a distance,
such a small shred
grows—north, south
in every heavenly path.
Fills the room;
now there are two;
if only she knew.
The painter, elsewhere
a sweating, nervous wreck
pulse beating on his neck.
He hopes deeply
almost beyond hope itself
that the message will come through
and she knows
what he feels is true;
if only, if only she knew.
Beautiful lady is perplexed
thankfully remains unvexed.
Wait—a gasp—she sees it;
her heart, matches with a flit.
She’s been looking in a mirror:
make no mistake, this is no error,
this glorious canvas
painted with such tact, class
heart now a chargèd rod.
This painter—oh god
such a charming gentleman
his affectionate way definitely can
stir up the wildest feelings inside of me
ones even I have not managed to see.
Such beautiful emotions of many a hue
That was the moment,
that was the moment she knew.
There’s a glint in your eye
perhaps a furtive glance
or a smile
you’re ready to dance.
Dance, we will,
till the sun rests
And sing, we will,
till the moon’s in the sky.
That lubricious look you gave me
full of passion, desire – and there was one thing
one in who’s recognising I’m only a trainee
it’s one that made my heart so dearly ring.
You can feel it between the short breaths
between the needed gulps of air
a pang of fiery warmth
through a curtain of her hair.
This is a world unparalleled
as we reach the romantic overture
where words are of no use, where telepathy prevails
an experience, a feeling to nurture.
As the beating drums switch to tingling triangles,
and oxytocin tsunamis turn to tender embraces
understanding the words behind each fond caress:
‘tis adoration for one another we here possess.
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.