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.
I’m a magician
pulling words out of a hat
not knowing if it’s going to be a brick
or a cat.
I pull religiously everyday
even Jesus would raise his brows
pulling strings
and threading them into bows.
One fateful day I put my whole hand in
rumbling, fumbling around
just empty air
not a single sound
Oh wait! There’s something!
Hard as stone but firm
It’s a bit of Lego—
I can use it to finish
building this poem!
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.
You, who has bright blue eyes
and glowing blond hair;
You, who does not talk to strangers
and keeps to yourself;
You, who stands away from others
giving them all the space they need;
You, who eats strange fermented things
or as you call them—“local delicacies”;
You, who is an entirely different person
having drunk the right stuff;
You, who is deeply friendly and kind;
to your other sides, I am still blind.
New arrival
both young and old
out of my depth but excited,
ecstatic
all the time.
People,
lots of them
mindblowing, inspiring, advanced
achievements
full of life.
Beautiful people
especially the ladies
eyes shining,
a generous smile
and flowing hair.
All these people
are new stars
new shining lights
in my life;
those of my parents
shift to the background
guiding me.
New arrival
new experiences
lots to learn
open mind
and open soul—
feeling young and old
out of my depth
but joyful all the time.
The endless city hubbub
bubbling and humming away
big train stations and motorways
are never far away.
Yet, it is in moments like these
from the buzz distant
that we notice a muffled sneeze
and the swaying of a pendant
the click of a pen
leaves us asking—it all started when?
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.
Travelling the
whole
wide
amazing
epic
striking
beautiful
gobsmacking
astounding
jaw-dropping
resplendent
world
is something I’d very much like to do, at some point, that would be fantastic, thanks.
Upon these Wallooon fields
Of wheat, cabbage and barley
Where the sweet morning breeze
Brushes all thoughts aside.
They may be of loves past
Of loves in the future
Of self-reflection
Or the entire human experience.
It matters not;
They are all blown away
Far, into the distant clouds
By the sweet morning breeze.
Waking up at the crack of dawn
appreciating the navy heavens.
On the way, thoroughly empty, deserted roads
befriending cats and rats;
for they are the sole souls present here.
Arrived: not silence, but an orchestra
a crescendo of birdsong
and those pesky croaking crows
it’s vomit to my ears
(a rather unpleasant sound);
but then arrive the tits and sparrows
like the violins and cellos,
adding to it all, now more than mezzoforte.
Going towards the lakes these mirrorlike earthly reservoirs of life
not one, not two, not three—but about a million
(a very accurate estimate, believe me)
bleating frogs in unison.
But all falls to silence once the fiery ball comes into view
the ball still covered in cotton wool and packaging pellets
there they are—floating.
Who would have thought that they could, too, be
sources of life and blessing throughout civilisations?
The morning orchestra continues.