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Tag: imagery

Respect (2)

Respect
A song by Aretha Franklin,
A good song at that,
The youths would call it “a banger”
But it’s a rather nebulous term

What does respect feel like?
It’s not like hunger, that’s fairly clear
(Actually I’m pretty hungry now)
Or thirst, or bodily desires, they’ll all easy to pin down
Put a pin in, pin on the noticeboard, easy to spot

True respect is many things,
It’s love, it’s knowing when and how to love
It’s the pause before an utterance
It’s people’s liberal stance’
It fits your heart like a glove
Snug and warm inside,
Wanting to put it on again
Most of all, it’s mutual understanding
It’s why we’re both still standing

It’s mature like good vintage cheddar
Although I can’t say I’ve tried to eat respect
It would be good to include it in society’s diet.

For the first poem entitled ‘Respect’, see this link.
These poems are not related, although as others have said, “history doesn’t repeat itself, but it rhymes”.

Life’s theatre

Life is like a play: from whose perspective are you looking?
From whose perspective are you being played?
The omniscient writers with their secret agendas
Or the actors, pawns on a chessboard
Beyond any dimension

It’s you, it’s her, it’s all of us
So many chessboards, so many theatres
All here flowing towards the Eternal Question

In the end, there will be music

The rhythmic pat of the drum
and the soft touch of the piano keys
is all that’s truly stable
in a world that is abominable.

So much ill and suffering
has happened since I came here last
at least I have reassuring sound of jazz
as others elsewhere are called to heavenly mass

I wish she was here
to understand and to share my sorrow
together we’d gaze into the skies and see the moon
while breathing to the pangs of Clair de lune

Indeed, all that is stable in this world
is the sound of the piano, of kindness, of love
even if others strive for it to be smothered
human generosity and truth will prevail
All will be good in the end, they say
All that’s left for us to do is help and pray.

Jazz

I think I like to imagine you sitting here
Your body as smooth as jazz
Leaving the confused mess of life behind
Smoothening out its creases
You know I’ve made up my mind

The soft dance of the candlelight
Bathes you in ever-irresistible velvet
Like the crisp crackle of dark chocolate
Melting on your skin, your fingertips
Raising my crown, tugging, pulling, making me affectionate

Oh how that saxophone blares when we kiss
Birds of paradise in utter bliss
In joint unison levitating over life’s jarred days
Oh how I’d deeply wish
You were here to hear this jazzman’s plays.

Grandmother’s tulip patch

January’s fog as thick as hot milk
Shrouds, bleaches, suffocates the landscape
Only the lone farm’s lights twinkle through the glaze
Setting the milk a bold yellow ablaze

From the window, a young lady watches
Only the candlelight’s shadows move
She can smell the dust, the memories, the toil of long ago
Looking where her grandmother’s tulips used to grow.

Her grandmother was a hard-working woman, never fazed
by any menial tasks or obstacles
Her back bent, as she weeded the tulip patch
Before the thorns and thistles snatch.

She would tell her “don’t you step on that precious soil!”
As the baby girl made her first steps
Almost trampling where the tulips would be in the spring
Her grandmother would swoop and home safely bring

Now the baby girl is a young lady
Watching the fog creeping over where Granny stood
it spills across the earth mound
surrounds the house round and round

The memories of all the years
With grandmother by her side
Now it’s the granddaughter’s turn
To preen the tulips before the summer sun’s burn.

After reflecting on this poem that I wrote, I was reminded of Seamus Heaney’s Digging, It’s an excellent (and very famous) poem covering a somewhat similar theme to this one here.

Old friends

Going back into nature is like returning to an old friend
You can talk for hours and sit in silence
Bask in the silent understanding
While both your hearts mend.

The road to Bruges

Holding banana bread in my hand
A bit soggy, like the weather outside.
The raindrops crumple against the windscreen
as the banana bread crumples in my mouth
It’s more of a squish than a crumple, really.
Not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Driving away from Christmas
Towards Bruges, being
a tourist at home

A glimpse of the cars streaming past
Like the raindrops
(only, thankfully, a bit more stable)
Sitting in the passenger seat,
the well-dressed man’s asleep
His wife, girlfriend, sister?
an earphone hanging from one side
In another car, the BMW driver
grimaces at the greyness of the world
as we pass over the local river.

It’s a funny language, Dutch
like lots of boiled potatoes falling apart
in your mouth
throw in some nails and beer for good measure
adding some nuance for the pronunciation.

I’d keep on writing here, but we’ve arrived
And now it’s time for me to look at pretty houses
As Chris Rea echoes down the street
Hold my banana bread
as I engage in conspicuous capitalism

Cranial banter

You, sitting over there with your AirPods in
or you, with those funky glasses
and those trousers retrieved from a dustbin

What are you thinking? How are you doing?
What did you do today?
Yes, the wind was blowing
but weather’s so damn blasé
about the whole thing.

I often wonder what we all go through
John, are you also wondering about life
or maybe your investments failing to accrue
What’s Maria wondering? The same as Sophia?
Yes, he was cute but he’s got a girlfriend
and maybe we should talk about local politics
No, let’s not

What are you listening to, you with your AirPods in?
I hope it’s as nice as as Chopin or Purcell
they didn’t really have auto-tune (it’s a bloody sin)
Or Springsteen, he’s pretty good
when you’re in the right mood

I’ll never know anyway
maybe it doesn’t matter
It’s fun to think, though,
of our collective cranial banter

Leaving home behind

Overcome by melancholy
Once more on a giant metal bird
Leaving home behind,
Going home,
Flying home for Christmas.

Leaving love behind
Love which was not to be
Not the right time, day or year

Leaving friends like family behind
Leaving home behind

But coming home!
Leaving all the sweat, tears
and stress all behind.

There’s nothing like a parent’s embrace
Of that I needn’t dream.

“What is home?” they ask me
Home is whatever you make it to be

Home is going from one home to another
From love, friends, stress and bother
To family, love, togetherness and a previous life
What is home? This is home. Home is life.

Snowflakes on your lashes

On a resplendent December night
I last looked upon you in a resplendent way
the thick snowflakes, a glorious sight
they fell on your perfect eyelashes, blinking them away.

This little poem is a search for closure of sorts
and I will not reflect upon you like so no more;
despite the pain, the sadness that contorts
my soul, my joy, all bruised, bandaged now, still sore.

We spun around on the dance floor like two fireflies
glowing in the dim cold winter, bright—
your laugh, your eyes, your hair, my heart cries
such raw, unblemished, naked emotional might.

For a fleeting moment I allowed myself to entertain
a future, in sync, waltzing, laughing together
of which now must an icy memory remain
not should our paths cross, for the better?

Your inner and outer beauty shone like a pale rose
and I understood the predicament you lied before
and, for the better like this, I suppose
this final cry, this final poem for you—and no more.

When you voiced your reflected thoughts—
it is as if all winter stood perfectly still around
snowflakes frozen on your lashes like catapults
shaking, crumbling, melting my ground.

I did not wish to give in to hope
but hope and future joy found me nevertheless
since our profound, shared, mutual joy needn’t cope
alas we were wrong and allowed hope into this mess

But now, I have written my raw, grinding emotions for you
Yesterday, when you told me—I would have
cried you a river if it would mean us two
together, our cheeks a light, naked mauve.

This is the best way forward; but didn’t you know
how much your company meant so profoundly
I will miss the laughter, the perspective it used to show
a faded, defunct light will no longer guide me.

I will turn to other lighthouses on these December nights
but never fill I forget your resplendent sights
snowflakes on your lashes
before my heart crumbles, smashes.

This is how it should go, farewell dear friend
no use in pretending, my heart is on the mend;
good luck to my memory of you—my love is now in this poem, here
for I was forced to extinguish its inner end
this postcard of thoughts I will here write and send
and I know, I hold steadfast I will shed no tear
this is best for you and me, dear.