Poems from Ondrej’s heart
There is a time for poetry
and that time is now.
The hour of sombre rhythms
breaking the deafening silence;
the driving rhythms
reminiscing of times past.
I missed its supple embrace
a place of warming comfort
of affection and sorrow
where the wordsmith resides.
Now I must briefly bid farewell
for bodily rest beckons;
Tomorrow, I’ll come hither
when it will be time for poetry.
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.
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.