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Ondrej’s Poetry Posts

A glint in your eye

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.

Wim’s waiting

What’s wrong with wanting
when we’re wackily wailing
while waiting with Wim’s whim.

Wonderfully windy winters
whenever we wish
when we want!

Wonky wands with worn words
without Wim’s whim.
Wonderland was wryly wrong
wavering, whisking,
wondering whether Wim’s whim
wherefore, was worth waiting?

Why won’t we whisht
when winds whisk
wrongly waiting Wim?

Fatigue

As the fog rolls in
you cannot see the shore;
much like when
you are tired once more.

A grey-blue haze
of midnight blooms
comes rushing in;
it swiftly swoons.

You dread it coming
but avoid it, you cannot
the ship’s arrived
ties you up in a knot.

Your time has come,
the slow bells of slumber call
run away, you can try
be like running into a brick wall.
Either way, standing or sitting or lying;
the heavy curtain will fall like lead
little time left for complying,
it cares not whether you are in your bed.

Otherwise, should you wish to evade,
it will not be lead next time:
the shrill whistle of falling stone
as you draw your last breath, alone.

Quarantine 4

Almost losing count, we’re now in the fourth week
‘tis a strange thing, not seeing others
and not even hearing them speak.

Grim-faced and sullen, the faces
of everybody around
Confinement puts them through their paces
Masks making their muffled sound.

Some speak of a war, a deathly catastrophe
yet all they know is peace and prosperity!
Real, brutal, gruesome war is different while alike
But I have no authority nor experience
To write of war perils or their pertinence
All I can do is highlight the impact on our psyche.

It is a different kind of war, bloody in its own right
One not given up, not without a fight
One fought within the very depths of ourselves
while people empty supermarket shelves.

Writing letters

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.

Wardrobe

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.

On the desk

A leftover poem,
a scrap of text
lying on my desk.
A little surprise
for myself or others.
For some,
a pleasant one:
brings a smile
to their frownèd face.
For others,
a shred of paper
with some scribbles.
Very combustible,
it is either way.

While she’s asleep

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.

Dimples

They say my poems are simple
I beg to differ.
It’s as if you had a dimple
as part of your attire.

A dimple is a key part
of one’s face
to look, where to start
on this bodily place?

It is shown by a smile
which hides before you look
an instant shorter, while
you have time to close your book

A quick, furtive glance
Shows he’s in a trance
Thinking about his simple poems
Leaving no place for his dimply chums.

Sockless printer

A printer, a banal thing
all it does is prints, maybe scans
why is it so fascinating
when all the ink comes in cans?

The paper, it eats it
without a care for the world
and then it jams a bit
the reason, a bit of mould.

We should go back to the days of monks
they did a much better job
without wearing any socks.