What simple joy to reminisce And think of fleeted flings. Of those moments blissful shared And meals we dined like kings. Those silly fights of logic bouts That were but all for naught. That cruel look in your eye That made me glad we fought. The joy of dating one as you Is the pain it can beget: For even though I scant recall, Your fury I’ll not forget.
Tag: poems
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For an Ex
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Fromagany
The smell of cheese, with simplest ease, is tempting beyond compare, But saddest fate, a lactose hate, my body would never dare. And so good gals, my dearest pals, indulged in their delight Of cheesey bread, melted instead, gooey in every bite. Tragic, I say, my body may not feast on best of food: Sad, I know, my genes did grow an anti-lactose brood. And so they jest, like all the rest, on things I cannot eat, But in good fun, it’s tragic none, for I have my own treat. Its flavour faint, with no complaint, its taste is what I’m after, That of the sense, at my expense, of humour and of laughter. No cheese will my body comply, but dine on thus for me, On friendly pokes from silly jokes in their good company.
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A Toast – For Friends
What force is this, to deserve a toast, That has gone and made us friends? Or what feeling is it that we host, That has no concealèd ends. A toast, to this, a great sensation, That has rendered us good fools. Close friends are we, as anyone can see, That, between us, knows no rules. To those unknown, and friendly strangers, To stories of half-construct, To back alleys, and hidden dangers, And to those whose mouths were fucked To memories unforgettable, To times of celebration, To decisions most regrettable In our inebriation To teary grins, our ensemblèd sins, To laughter we cannot stop. To contests where nobody wins, To partners we’d love to swap. To our coffees at midday sun, To toeing 8’s on the ground, To a seemingly endless fun, To this friendship we have found. So to what force is this toast deserved, That we cannot break free of? It is that force that sees friends preserved, That force that we can call love.
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Impatient
So maybe I miss you a little, That isn’t so much at all. It’s just enough to make me watch The clock ticking on the wall. If anything I’m distracted, By the clock’s dilly dally: Every minute that goes by, It has only a second tallied But maybe I’m just excited, And time is moving too slow. I can barely wait these next few days, And I wanted you to know.
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Fools in Isolation
We are so adept at it all, So capable of the great many abilities we have abled, So wonderfully determined, So wondrously curious. We chance against the odds, Make light amid a dark that we know is abyssal, Make great strides in endeavour, Make more with less. We’re not opposed to clamour, Fighting in the name of a good that we feel in ourselves, Fighting for the downtrodden, Fighting against a wrong. We care, in and of caring, Should we feel compelled to better the heart, Should the need thereof arise, Should it matter. But, we’ve grown comfortable; Inconvenienced by a threat we don’t understand; Tired by the breaking of a routine that we dare not interrupt; Warring with any effort to save us, if not at least from ourselves. We were never once more bright. So close have we made each other to the world and we within it. So near are we to fighting against the eternity of stars. So warm are our dearest should they may. But, so late have days made patience end draw nigh, For we fools in isolation would rather convenience; die.
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For The One I See
I wandered into a forest today, not knowing what I would find What I beheld at its very centre was my own heart entwined Betwixt mine own disbelief and between my utter fear At first I thought mine eyes to lie, for I saw unclear The forest was not my only host, for I sensed another Lurked at its depths, and yet all around, was this nature’s mother Whispers soft on the air, a voice that breathed my name But I knew not of this forest, nor of its mother’s game The wind caressed my cheek, and moved the hair from mine eyes It was warm to the touch; it was her in disguise The breeze flowed gently and ran her soothing fingers through my hair I gasped in bliss and closed my eyes as vanilla filled the air Sweet honey, lilac, and smells of jasmine overthrew my senses Drunk on perfumes of ecstasy I put down my hearts defences She felt my heart exposed to her, and began to drop her windy cloak From air to mist, I saw her form, then saw her body, from mist to smoke Clouded, my mind all was, for she was fully covered in new drape I strived to make out her image, for I saw only the faintest shape Thirsting to know her true look that was, from smoke, beyond She saw me parched, so led me to drink the water from a pond I cupped my hands, imbibed in trust, and at the pond I stared And suddenly, into her gaze, our eyes became as paired From water, rose she; eyes focused, she looked uponeth me Stunned, I watched; was though she rose a maiden from the sea Her green eyes saw mine eyes ablue, as we saw eye to eye As though the forest, with her sweet smile, looks upon the sky But sky, as blue as these eyes, squinted to see the maiden none I closed my eyes against a light, shining as bright as the sun The light dimmed enough so that I could see a gleaming glare The light from whence mine eyes retreated had done so into her hair Golden curls ablaze, the forest palace lit up in rejoice Silence fell on treetops listening to hear her peaceful voice A rouge lined her thin lips, and formed a subtle grin And in an instant my heart seized and wrenched deep within Emotion coursed through my veins, passion’s fury arage She was a Paige to my desire, yet of my zeal she was sage Of foggy eyes my mind was lifted, for I beheld the dawn Her beauty was all I wanted to see and look upon Who is she but woman, the mother of creation, Of wisdom, thought, feeling, and of grand elation She is insight into the heart, and insights in men a storm She is reason to give up logic and let emotion be the norm She is fiery in her wrath, but is unfair: never She can live a short life, or choose to last forever She the teacher, and I the student, learning at my side Professing love and trust; in her my heart confides My fury cooled to a calm with the touch of her soft hand And delight stirred inside me, more than I could stand I did not deserve such grace of hers, for she is without flaw I am but a lowly poet who can only record what he saw I take solace in knowing she enlightens those who heed her And that in short time the world we know will most surely need her What a day it is to meet perfection, on this I often ponder To a forest, she gives me reason, to think and to wander I wandered into a forest today, and it was better than it often seems For I found the purest form of beauty: the perfect woman of my dreams
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A Week in a Day
Sleepless nights lose track of time. To stay awake is too sublime. But what day is it, or has yet past, Tis’ week’s first day, or its last? There are nights with morning’s long, Moons greeted by a robin’s song, Sunshined skies a murky blue, With stars asight, of deepest hue. Midnight’s hour is full of life, Yet midday’s noon with silence rife. Has tomorrow become today? Or do sleepless nights, mine eyes, betray? And has the present become the past? Or have sleepless hours that I’ve amassed Cursed my slumber to eternal wake, Until my fate: to sleepless break?
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Upon My Thinking Hill
Were there times of thought pervasion, I would their source be one, For on such and such occasion, My Muse would rampant run. Upon a grassy pitch I sat, upon the sun’s first spill, Upon a dancing Muse of thoughts, upon my thinking hill. My eyes adroop in tired aching Both squinting just to see. A paper scrawled in ink awaking A night of sleepless spree. Upon a grassy pitch I sat, upon the sun’s bright thrill, Upon a dancing Muse of thoughts, upon my thinking hill. My writing pen and written page Aflow from line to line; Words a form of the Muse’s stage; A dream atop my shrine. Upon a grassy pitch I sat, upon the sun’s sky-fill, Upon a dancing Muse of thoughts, upon my thinking hill. My Muse would dance my art to life, The heart to beating feel, Relieve in bliss, thought nil of strife, My Muse: a woman real Upon a grassy pitch I sat, upon the sun to will, Appear my dancing Muse of thoughts, upon my thinking hill.