The Time We Had

THERE WAS A TIME
I found myself in your arms
In them I found peace
I lost my way again and again
I slipped from your soft grip

I used to feel the scent of an old, sweet perfume
Caress the hairy canvas over my bones
I wandered away time and time
And I erased your touch from my skin

Now, I reminisce of gone times
That I stood staring at you lovingly
Under pale shades of love Not so long ago.

I remember when I first saw you
On that food truck of ice cream and candies I asked myself:
How could someone be so beautiful!
Deep, white eyes like egg yolk
And a smile…
A smile, bright like the skies of Illinois in May

For the eons we have been together
I sit and think of what this life has made from two, young and wild bodies:
Matrimonial rings,
Innocent voices that call me ‘Da-da’
And a whole book of memories
Just what I wanted; nothing more, nothing less

And so when the sun dips its head
And the wind gasps to usher a nightfall,
I remind myself of the lucky man I am
I remind myself of our dreams
I remind myself to be a good husband and father
I think of us: now and forever
Oh, dear Shelly
What a time we had!

Maker!

I am the voice the deaf would wish to hear

The future the blind would wish to see

I am the world.

I am the sun, the moon, and the clouds

I am the wind that blows against the ocean

I am the world.

 

I am the path that the lame would wish to walk upon

I am the sea

I am what is, was and will be

I am the world

 

The other souls, that chain me in their disgust

I shall arise, and upon their shoulders stomp

I am the ballad, the ode, and the dirge

I am the world.

I am the river of tears of loss

I am the taste of smile from happiness

I am the tiny light cavers need

I am the world.

 

And when the song is sung,

I am it, and it me

I am the voice in your head

I am your MAKER!

She

Today I Saw Her!

I saw, or at least, I dreamed I saw her sitting alone.

Her head was bowed as though buried deep in a sappy poem.

Her neck was bent, forming an arch and her neckpiece glintingagainst the evening sun

She could not look up, or at least move her head

And I thought her eyes were wet with tears, I could not hold it.

She was a princess 

In this world, I walk to save princesses, and she was my princess.

She had a perfect skin; she was a mystery I wanted to venture

Her beautiful blonde hair, Ah! Would my black hair mingle with it, I know not?

Could it be? I thought, as she sniffed some air into her lungs

These thick warm lips I possess, pressed against her perfect brow

And down to her chubby cheeks, I taste some salty runny.

It really is her! 

But could it be? My long veiny black hand arched around her perfect and shapely body 

I played on her cheeks and wetted her lips, 

And my heart leapt. It really is her!

Today I saw, or dreamed, oh yes, I dreamed!

Her warm embrace, if only I would never have an alarm set.

Angela

The Girl in the Picture


She flies with her own wings.

The woman I fell for

“There is no real me,” she said,

“Only an entity of emptiness”

Left with nothing, losing all she cared for.

I look at her 

And all I can see is a distant fulgurous star

With a light from a decade ago.

 

The promise I made

The wishes she had

I knew she was afraid

She and I, had a little tad

 

I look into her drab and delicate face

Deep inside resides a distraught girl

Angry at life for its cruelty and barbarity

Always cocooned in her empty shell of loneliness and loss

Desiring the warm embrace of a mother she lacks,

And the assurance that all will be well.

However much I try to be a recourse,

Her scars run deeper than I can reach.

 

Little miss perfectly flawed

I look at her, and she is a constant reminder

That sometimes when people are broken in some ways

They become unfixable.

Fairies and Their Tales

If Fairies Were Real.

I want to wear sandals, and a robe, and be taken out of this world

In the times when night fades into day, or winter to spring to summer

In the times when there is sappiness and in this deep affection and where in love, we are whirled.

I want to ride upon the wind, and run upon the scruffy tides where I am a newcomer

 

Life is no life without little things from which big things grow

So, I want to be still, to listen when the earth is singing

Where I can only worry about my left eyebrow

Where I can hear no amah mope and no bairn whining  

I want to go with the one I love and not have to calculate the cost

I want to be a teapot, to blow steam over their faces

I want a place where I utter, and get no riposte

Where life is life and no varmints run apace

 

When I picture double-tongued snakes, and a thorny hedgehog

And ornamented rocks hug, speak and sit by the nursery fire 

I want that to stay forever, I want to die agog

And all along the walls at intervals, picking elms, hollies and then a flowery briar

I want to ride, dine, lie and die in the air.

 

But if only fairies were real, my dear flawless Felicity 

Ah, who would care about authenticity

I have a fairy wife, with whom I will oust my actual eccentricity

She is the heart of the storm, she is an alacrity

My heart is asunder, for I have lost my virility.

I have a fairy wife whom I do not know, but if only fairies were a reality.

Nonproprietary

It has no name, that which presses weight upon her head
A steer of wind, a vortex of a gloomy gorge, rough and blustery.
In her genteel heart, there is emptiness, and she bears the weight of an anchor
She does not seem to care, nor want to, yet she craves entirety
There is a heavy stone inside her head, and she cannot bear
Yet it has no name, whatever that is.
I warned her, and yet in my belligerence, my words came true
She did not care, ‘’After all, what does it matter to lose one soul,
Millions have been lost in ages,’’
The voice from her laughter, so calming yet her eyes gave a stern glare
The false conviction in her gait, her neck so high, disguising her fearfulness
Hankering a little insecure girl in deep want of love and passion yet with fear of uncertainty.

She fails to make meaning of life.
She breathes but does not really feel alive, she smiles but is never happy
The face she wears out in the open is ripped into a forlorn and sad grimace at sunset
She looks at the desire of her heart heretofore she cannot claim
Her lips burn, her hair stand, and her skin tingles
But she cannot allow herself to be vulnerable, her heart burns and her head pounds

The full moon comes, and the old pain of torment
And the fear that she might never find what she is not looking for yet desire
She is uncertain of what might be of her being alone, or of courting.
A stone rests upon her heart so heavy,
And on it, there is no name, no answer to her troubles
Only one truth, that she is bound to suffer with every breath she takes
Her duty conflicts with her heart, she knows not whether it is too late to turn back from duty and away from desire
Broken, solitary, and under the scrutiny of those she much hides her feelings from
And when she hears a baritone voice, her heart skips a beat
Silence follows, and her soul dances, but a memory of her life’s meaning flashes,
Soon, her head bows and her eyes shine, and she wants death more than the life she craves
A feeling of emptiness floods her wholeness
What she once felt, love, passion, happiness, and joy.
Well, they are gone, and there must she remain,
She cannot name what she really wants nor what she really feels,
She is consumed by her own expectations,
Yet it has no name, that which she endures.

The Sting

But I only felt it once
First, a soft touch like a pat on my shoulder
And then an itch begging me to scratch
Followed a boring prick that left me burning in pain and discomfort
I felt my heart pounding faster and faster as the little creature steadily hummed close to my body
And with its wings wafting a cool little blow as though to calm me of its own sting.
I did not know where I was, and my legs could not move an inch
All I knew at the instance was that I was alone and going to stop living
Then suddenly I was down, and all movement stopped like an occluded car engine.

The roof of my mouth was dry, I could not swallow
Every breath of hot air into my lungs robbed more water from my dry self
They called it The Sting of Life, for not one of the hundreds that were stung yet drew breath.
So, I gagged. First with quick successions, then slowly, I was in deep sleep
‘’It is going to be the loneliest death of all,’’ I thought
I could feel air leaving my lungs and none being drawn in
I could feel my heart slowly fading and beating tardily
I tasted salt in my tongue, and then pepper, and then soil, and then there was darkness.

In the darkness I could see some light, and a silhouette of a woman’s figure!
Oh, my joys, the joys I had nursed so warmly
I felt my lips move as though to smile at her, holding a lantern to my face
I could see her, but I could not see me, and her eyes widened with zeal and anticipation
I wanted to speak to her, but no words came off my mouth
And I wanted to touch her, and ask her where I was at
She was a beauty to reckon!
Here we lie, without life, for we chose not to live
Because we had much shame to let live
Here we lie, stung to death, losing time and chance
But I would rather be here with the love that hears my skin tingling
Than live a shame.

Here where we wander freely and without purpose nor expectation
Here where there is darkness, but we can light a lantern to see each other
Here where we were stung to.

Lemonades and Lemonheads

And I wonder
When then, will it ever end?
Tomorrow means less,
We’re the salt of the earth, awaiting a storm
Dust, my friend, to dust
all the pain, all the losses
All that we have overcome means nothing
We might have cast the darkness away
But it still remains just within
Always broken, always scarred
Death awaits, in the wind we wade
Lots of secrets await us in our graves
But at least, today is silent.
Salt, of the earth, is all we are
So I wanted you to know, that I will bother you no more
I know it’s a little too late
But I’m sorry, I want no more bruises
Whilst the lights fade out,
I’ve bled enough
And we have nothing to talk about anymore
This time next year, I’ll be gone, or you, or just I.
Yet still my lemon head wonders
When will the right time be, for lemonades?