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.
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.
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.
Don’t fret
I remember what you said
and the way you looked
the last time we met.
Every detail of every glance
Yours, thoughtful, patient interest
Mine, the same, but with a dance
Hidden deep within my chest.
Your life, full of accomplishments
A gobsmacking list of achievements
Mine, a bit more restrained
One destiny has not yet ordained.
There aren’t many things I can do
Take a picture, write a poem or two
While you, it seems
have already fulfilled your dreams.
Someone to look up to, be inspired by
Not even knowing you helped me fly.
As we enter week three,
there is not much left to see.
My hands are rubbed raw;
my nails, there is nothing left to gnaw.
Just rice in the pantry,
maybe some spaghetti…
My appetite is paltry,
and our conversations are petty.
There is some positivity:
I have plenty of ink.
Though, at times, mediocre creativity
to practice doublethink.
Romeo and Juliet never met,
Shakespeare was a lie.
My cat is not a pet,
stop making that sigh!
Their relationship, a fraud
Like everything nowadays.
An example, Uncle Claude,
all he does is go on holidays.
His accounts, nothing to applaud:
setting stacks of cash ablaze.
But this fiery stack
doesn’t help Claude unpack.
Since he’s stuck on a ship,
he left the captain no tip.
His behaviour is appalling,
he should just be left there;
but then he wouldn’t stop telling
people about Shakespeare’s made-up pair.
An azure-blue sky
so bright, shining.
The sun set into it,
like a gem,
a glowing amber,
radiating heat,
radiating life.
And the bumblebees bumble by bushes
looking lost.
But this is what we think.
With our big societies,
rich civilisations, think.
A glimpse of a bright car
on the road
a van, flashing lights.
Oh no, I think.
Not again.
Not here.
Screeching suddenly, it stops.
Suited-up silhouettes sprinting.
A rush,
a deathly urgency.
Life is in slow motion
now even more so
like pressing ‘rewind’
on a remote with no batteries.
A person, on a stretcher
comes out.
The masks and gloves
slam doors
and all of it
is over.
As quickly as it began.
That’s life
or what remains of it
under quarantine.
When the leaves fall from the sky,
you feel like you want to cry.
But you must never forget
That the right mindset
can really make you fly!
Seeing a rainbow,
the leaves on the trees rustling
and the birds flying around.
Looking at this beautiful world we live in
through a window
locked in a big concrete building.
All the colours,
watching the world go by.
Through a window.