I’ve gained nothing but a loss
of hopes and dreams unrealized,
dissolving with the days now passed
the rosy fragrance idolized.
Between the mist and disappearance,
whose tethered spell snapped slowly,
I drank too often to erase, remind,
I drank too often to escape, deny —
But sobered up I did become,
and bid farewell sad memories,
I’ve gained nothing, yet the loss
of pain, of past, of fantasies,
to forgive us both forevermore
our imperfect meant-to-be.
If only dissertation writing came to me like poem ideas…
I stared that morning, long and deep,
the mirror blurred from shower steam,
my sunken stature still from prior grief
who once again gave up his dreams —
Was I at fault? It’s hard to say —
A hope outmatched by circumstance,
and found in written words those days
what parallel endings I could pen.
And muddled too today has been,
a thickened winter fog blown overhead,
yet clearer than these months, I sense
a birthing between quickened breaths —
For dreams, in cycles, don’t stay dead,
but spark hope always in a lover’s head.
Some wake-up calls are costly, but transitions have their prices. Become better, not bitter.
I lingered there,
the chapter’s end,
reeling from finality,
longing to relive in
Merely just a page,
a blank canvass
separates — yet,
light as paper weighs,
the finger hesitates.
A rare instance where the title existed first, and then the piece followed. It’s a new set of days now: what to do with them?
A fitting end for a tear-filled year,
a blue of spotless bright reflecting peace,
the lake in distant view a tranquil calm,
and thoughts of you like waves recede.
Brisk, I paced away from coastal winds,
whose frigid air gripped jacket tightly;
for all the quiet solemn walks provide,
a memory churned can more than match.
Tomorrow’s tide will still feel cold,
the lips as chapped from brine and breeze,
yet there is peace in waves again
as thoughts of you with tides recede.
“I’m erasing myself from the narrative…”
Its blue has long since aged,
and edges worn and frayed,
but still this long-sleeved gift
accommodates my frame;
For I lived poorer yesterday,
when glamor cost too much,
but kindness found its way
and delivered me sweet love;
And soon, if luck’s my lot,
a graceful hue will bless another,
for mine, though faded blue,
had made me all the richer.
Been a while. Take all the inspiration and momentum and make the most of the remaining days in 2016. Not throwing away my shot, right?
A soul is light despite its age,
well-rested ‘neath a wrinkled brow,
where marks of smiles coalesced
that years of hardiness had endowed;
Each line, each crease, a legacy
oft’ crudely drawn in deeds forgettable,
yet gleaned afar the picture bears
a peace with self, serene and gentle;
No doubt do losses in years pain,
and yearn for youth as hard if offered,
yet there’s enough to keep at night
reflecting fond’ each mark’s reminder.
I still have more to do, more marks to make. Enjoy and appreciate the memories I’ve had the blessing to receive. Then look forward and start anew.
The field was fertile, blank and soft,
where dews and dawnings intermixed,
as farming hands placed one by one
the hopes of future months and weeks.
Yet pangs, impulsive, bested some,
unsteady as the wistful ways of hope,
would leave the field and harvest’s sum
unkempt despite their well-intended love.
And days there were in harshest heat,
as days there were of rain and thunder,
and some would grow despite it all
as others wilt despite no blunders.
Most tragic are those calloused hands
for whom all effort brought just pain,
some seasons overwhelm the senses
beyond the bounds of comprehend;
may trusted hands help ease the sorrow
and share in solidarity some grains.
But still some hands did managed
an order ‘midst the season’s churns,
imparting all the sweat they could
for honest pride and pennies in return.
And so passes by the months and weeks
‘til hovered bright the harvest moon,
when hands in sweat, in pain, or careless,
gather in seeds of their legacy’s boon.
This might have been the longest one I’ve ever written, time-wise too. At least two poems’ worth of ideas here, but ultimately decided it made more sense as one cohesive whole. With some work, this piece has potential.
Fallen leaves swirled delicate
beneath the radiant night,
a gift of hallowed moonlight
as hands held fast strolled by —
Departing wind left hints of winter,
for still the cold has lingered on,
so closer stride beside my dear,
the road ahead will lead us home —
Summer’s love will fade in days,
the gaudy sun to dim and whimper,
but with a certain cherished care
woven hands keep warm and tender.
It’s been a rough year for poems about love. Things do get better though, and this one came together superbly.
You never could have guessed
for sure beyond the hilly bent
if straight along or sideways
that future road would end —
You’ve heard a tale perhaps,
and dreamt between the naps,
but there beyond the bend
the path had not been mapped.
It helps to know of course,
to see what’s past the hillside —
some roads can lead to home
despite a foreign sunrise.
I guess the only thing I can say for certain about tomorrow is that I can’t actually know. At least for now, I have a half-kept secret in this blog…
Unwind — the clock resets!
A fix, temporal, to assuage;
fixated too though memories
of another heart un-swayed.
And yet the clock persists,
traceless hid the counted days,
that merry moving-on’s
would plead Forgetting stay.
2016 continues to surprise. Three months left to go for another one or two yet…