In a new strange land
with new strange people
wagging strange tongues;
none of it was planned.
But over time, only a few weeks
they are not so strange, they’re closer
warm-hearted, loving and witty
they’re what every lost person seeks.
Each beautiful in their own way
squares in a round world
inspiring me to do more—to write here
there’s only two words I can say.
The people you surround yourself with
are the people you become.
You are a smith,
you are the destined sum
of all their qualities and weaknesses.
Family is not something to choose:
do remember, the angels are your witnesses,
they need not search for clues.
If your friends are warm-hearted
you will be kind;
if they are, alas, narrow-minded
to beauty, you will be blind.
If they radiate with affection
you will have love to give;
Theirs is the direction
your existence you will live.
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.
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.
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.
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.