The taste of rice cakes on your lips
and the sea in your hair
whips your locks here and there
coupled with your hand snugly in mine, it grips
the edges of my soul and yours
as we walk on the edge of the water,
its salty smell on our tongues, even better
as your touch heals all my sores.
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.
It’s quite something when you meet a kindred spirit
And quite something more when you meet many of those
so many conversations you hear only a snippet
you want to hear them all as from the table you rose
The table is like those imagined long ago
a length of many metres or feet
(Depending on if you talk about ISO)
the people sitting around you try to greet
But there’s just so many interesting folk
There’s no time to daddle,
Almost not enough time to talk
About Sweden’s strange game of padel.
I’m sitting here beside the sea
along the sea
with the sea
by the sea
The sea and its endless flatness stretches out before me
as far as the eye can see
and I wonder how beautiful our planet can be
sitting here beside the sea.
It looks like the seagulls see it too
flying in rows of two by two
as they craw, shriek and coo
soaring above the endless view
I wonder, if only they knew
that it goes on for many kilometres too
an endless earthly rue
this sea, this ocean blue
Striding, bounding past June’s leafy trees,
bouncing up the gravel path
the weather with me agrees:
a fitting semester’s aftermath.
But it’s not me bounding nor bouncing up the road
it’s my heart that does
this, the first day does bode
well for the rest of my voyage—fills me with a buzz!
Such euphoria I’ve alas almost forgotten
but coming back brings it back.
Like the softness of tumble-dried cotton
this trip’s soundtrack.
As Malmö stretches out in front of me
and variform birds shriek undoubtedly
the waves break upon the sandbank
on the edge of nature’s giant fish tank.
As the wind whispers into my left ear
I look upon the empty wooden pier
now the wind shrieks and shouts
leaving no place for my echoing doubts.
As the agèd gentleman’s bicycle creaks by
and the elderly couples stroll by and sigh
the jugged, sharp edges of granite
are woven into nature’s fabric knit.
As the wind whispers (or does it shout?)
and the salty air circles roundabout
in an endless fight with the seagulls
looking down upon us fools.
Sometimes all we need is a helping hand
be able to let go of the daily swirl
quieten the inner cranial band
release the endless quotidian turmoil.
Imagine: the sandy beach by the North Sea
as the gale breaks you in
this is the place all ought to be
if they seek the elusive peace within.
The gust is much like on a peak;
that’s the roof of the world—and this by the base
these are the foundations we ought to seek
of the Earth’s true, heavenly riches but a taste.
I speak of this place fondly now I am sound
now that my mind is not clouded with worry nor ailment
but I was not so well a few hours prior, you would have found
but I visited and drew from the great natural ointment.
Such is my experience, that to all I propose
to visit some truly Earthly heaven:
the hills, the valleys, the lakes or meadows
the séjour will most certainly convert any heathen.
For the feeling of the true elements in your eyes
rendering your cheeks ruddy and silencing your sighs
the wind, sun, earth and rain bid all troubles whisked away
all I wish for is for all to enjoy these, come what may.
I am so overcome with emotion
I know not how to use this Earthly scribe
for within me there is much a commotion
one so difficult yet so simple to describe.
The longing for your heavenly proximity
does nothing but tear me apart
the desire for my gaze to fall upon your divinity
my heart pains as if pierced by many a dart.
So much inside me wishes for us to be
to be touching, laughing, gazing, smiling, understanding,
for now, alas, I know not what to do with me
except hope, pray, plead for your coming.
Do you know the internal turmoil of which I speak?
as I write here to an unknown, undiscovered recipient
there is so much but truly so little my heart and I seek
it is that to which all my subconscious is bent.
My conscious hides, files away this desire
for my flaws are far too many to pursue it further
it reasons that there is no good in taking it higher
there is little point in even attempting to imagine her.
But I know not what to do with my body nor soul
for that unmet, unknown her I wish to meet, to know;
I am aware what you and I think of me: a fool
for wishing life to be so simple to flow.
Your loving gaze, in a way, torments me:
your eyes of blue, green, hazel, amber jewel
your hair, a curtain or plaited—whatever it may be
all these images, in my mind so many a duel.
The faces of all those to whom I have been drawn before
blending in a spontaneous, whirling haze
I see you in all and in none once more
to whom am I, to whom are they, to whom are you directing your gaze?
My dearth of ability is such that to poetry I must turn
here, my vices, tics, inadequacies and oddities can hide
should these neural bridges be left to burn?
Or should I wait, hope, till you are by my side?
Who, but you, will douse the fires of temptation
or answer to my desires?
Who, but you, will I share intimate conversation
or dream of those places, those people to whom we aspire?
I am all and ready in an instant
to answer to you identically the same
for this will be no union of emotions distant
we will be indeed both to blame.
I look forward to the union of our hands in promenade
and our cheeks covered in fresh marmalade.
I look forward to the meeting of two immovable gazes
and the discovery of sacrosanct places.
Till then, the fire within me still burns
albeit covered, wherever I turn;
you, wherever you are, shall browse my dreams
looking gladly to when our lips seal all seams.
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.
Pif, paf, pum
that’s the sound of a gun
and the ratatat of this pun
which I’m saying for fun.
This conundrum of sounds
waiting to be found
cost: a few pounds
curse them, blimmin’, confound!