Enmeshed in thoughts of black and gold
of amber and of careful skill,
and drawn towards these almond pools
whose sparkles drain my will
Enmeshed and tangled into strength
which carries weakness in it too,
caught up in thoughts uncertain of
the whereabouts of (always!) you
Outside my window stands a tree
with leaves unfolded, clad in green,
and on my window sill is set
an ashtray, cigarette butts within
But in my head I only see
those smiles, those tears, those memories
who with your disappearance ought,
yes ought!, but never quite do, cease
Those golden autumn leaves –
I think of you –
your life a leaf of time itself
and sharing hue –
Your golden skin, angular bones –
a withered leaf –
the dewdrops on the leafs; your tears
that’s bound to cease
Your eyes that glitter amber-brown –
vitality is here –
development still going on;
there’s beauty there
How concentrate when you are here?
It’s difficult for sure.
And when you’ve left, still more
than while you still were here.
How can I write a poem
with an exquisite poem by my side;
what could I say that isn’t tried
about you? My heart’s poem.
How concentrate? I fail, you see,
much rather than write I wish
to study your features, and with a kiss
sign you, my poem: “by Me.”
The changing features of your ageing face,
a 1000-year old oak could have for bark,
that natural, innate and rhythmic grace
that leaves my words of poem in the dark
The life that thrives in your dark, simmering eyes,
the radiance that shines out of your mind,
that flow; continuity of time that lies
beneath the changing forms of our kind
Those wonderful, curious ridges
and valleys adorning your face
that speak simultaneously to me
of agelessness and bygone age;
Those shadows and highlights; treasures
of wisdom both old and new
contained in your smile and your wrinkles
ceaselessly draw me to you;
What good is simple beauty
that knows very little of time?
No, tempered by time and struggles,
such polished it’s made sublime;
And through your beautiful wisdom,
which smiles bring to your face,
I sense an ocean of vital strength
transgressing the passage of time, and age.
you stirred the water of my soul,
a new beginning could you mold –
who are you? I don’t know.
what power could stillwater free,
turn a wasteland into a sanctuary?
what power lies in you that I can’t see?
not see, but feel it’s effects; feel
the tidal force when round you wheel
in circles around me. who are you?
I don’t know, and I don’t care
as long as you are here
I need not to hear named a thing
which cannot really be explained.
A trembling tune of blended birdsong
in the wood at nightfall –
the setting sun, the rising mist,
the thoughts of what today’s been done –
Your graceful poise out on the porch
as you observe the fading beams of day –
it must’ve been the evening dew
that stained your cheeks – and then you’d say;
“the world is changing all too fast, and so is I,”
and turned your saddened amber eyes to me –
but I will not believe that tears could be
the substance trickling down the face of you;
the foremost of this world’s now-living men?
It cannot be – it was the evening dew.
Your lips and their redness,
their fullness and flavour;
their warmth and their sweetness
that I long to savour.
Your jaw and your cheekbones
in exquisite sharpness,
the hollows they leave in your cheeks
make me breathless.
Your straight, perfect nose
showing proudly between them,
those arches of beauty;
some time I will kiss them.
Your hair, neatly trimmed
with few spots of greyness;
the short ruffles, curl-like,
my hands have caressed.
Your eyebrows that arch up
and frame in your features;
your brow with the wrinkles
of thinkers and dreamers.
And lastly your eyes;
the amber-brown wells
whose dignity shines
on the face where it dwells.
You rarely show feelings
so I do for two –
but any expression
looks stunning on you.
The touch of your hand and the sound of your voice –
the smile and the movement of lips and of tongue –
the flicker of eyes and of eyelids, your breath,
the turn of your head and your shoulders, your warmth –
The tightening of sinews, your delicate fingers,
the ironic glimpse in your flicker of smiles –
the picturesque shape of your bones and your features,
the dignified shyness of poise and of gait –
The worries that furrowed your brow and your cheeks,
the wisdom that rests behind smiles, behind tears –
the knowledge you’ve gained, the illusions you’ve lost,
the marks left behind by your loves, hopes and fears –
The distant remoteness you try to preserve,
the closeness you need and the substitutes for it;
leave that in the past, and let’s see for the future
if not my embrace could prove much better fit.
A plane unfolding a cloud is the only
sign of other life we have in sight
while under this, the sky of the earliest
of the early days of Spring’s reluctant light
we tread a path through last year’s
and talk about all else than what we want.
And then a silence long and rarely broken
before we see it all again.