could it really be…
.
.
.
these arms spent so many years
.
.
.
not holding you near,
.
.
.
.
.
without breathing in
.
.
.
the scent of love in your voice
.
.
.
when you’re close to me?
.
.
.
.
.
how long did i wish…
.
.
.
that every cloud would spell
.
.
.
your name in the sky,
.
.
.
.
.
a heavenly trail
.
.
.
i would follow faithfully.
.
.
.
in each dream i dreamt…
.
.
.
tumbling through galaxies…
.
.
.
search imploding stars for
.
.
.
.
.
any trace of you.
.
.
.
how these fingers grieved,
.
.
.
without the soft curves of your
.
.
.
body next to me.
.
.
.
tossing and turning as each
.
.
.
day morphed into loveless night.
.
.
.
.
.
awake….without you…
.
.
.
.
living in the void between
.
.
.
.
day…. and mystery.
.
.
.
.
in this concrete, and its rolling steel,
this incessant clutter of continuous motion…
in the rushing hours of my city…
you either get in line or get out of the way.
there are though, many among us
living thinly on the margin,
who would, gladly…
if they only could. the
permanently uninvited, the lost
who never quite or never will…
and whether
you despise a job
or can’t wait to clock in
there is unspoken comfort
in belonging…in the queue…
of even a small cog
in something much larger…
i notice the, outside looking in…
i’m drawn to them, sigh a hopeful prayer to
those who can’t yet find a reason, untethered… because
i was them…but
the rushing hour is no time
for quiet contemplation… i sit
parked at the corner of four lanes
of one of the busiest thoroughfares in this city
i’d rather not call home. a couple walking by
clasped in an old fashioned arm-in-arm embrace
bouncing in their step and from the
waist up view i had through my windshield, they were
salt and pepper haired, past middle age.
and oh did they ever have so much to say!
their heads were bobbing, mouths moving
and walking their perfect unison. joyously oblivious…
i smiled to myself, ‘they really are in love’.
and it’s a funny thing,
we can always spot two people in love…
they turned, stopped at the corner and
he was slow swaying listening to her every word,
to the steady beat of her heart…as she
reassured her ponytail was perfectly in place.
as minutes ticked by, suddenly seeing
the two white canes brushing across the curb, waiting.
a smile replaced by concern they might
attempt to cross 4 lanes of rush hour traffic.
so, me watching the stoplight digits count down
5, 4, 3….my hand on the door
ready to intervene, help if i could but
i stopped myself… i had to,
because trust really is such a fragile thing….
2,1…and charging across the road they went
without even a care in this world, not
missing a single word of conversation, heads bobbing again
their love locked arm in arm, open heart to open heart. i watched,
exhaled, and saw them disappear slowly into the cool, close
shadow of tree canopy along the narrow street.
.
.
. Don’t Dream It’s Over
Hey now, hey now
Don’t dream it’s over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
We know they won’t win
.
dear friends…
because i don’t post on Friday and for
the benefit of my many new friends,
i thought i would dig into the archives.
this was my fourth poem after joining
20 Lines in April, it holds a special
place in my heart because it was the
first time a poem was inspired from
hearing a song for the first time.
thank you all so much *smiles*
many thanks to Sky Vani,
for sharing this song and beautiful video.
play it as a soundtrack, the words follow the tempo.
hope you::::enjoy::::
. her last page
.
.
.
.
.
as early as her day begins, it ends
a sad memoir echoes in an empty room,
and she breezes
through her motions
…without a care in this world.
as if her love never really ended
wrote the diary,
the last page.
wide cupped latte’,
a quick croissant
and her habitual daily stroll
to every place they ever met.
she’s hoping without a prayer,
he’ll be sitting there as always
in his favorite,
corner chair.
.
.
she chooses spools of woven thread
from the French village mercerie.
…that suggestive red dress
he always loved,
and it’s noticeable tear.
as if life never did really end
wrote the diary,
her last page.
.
.
.
.
written April 21 2013
and submitted to 20 Lines A Day
prose and poetry challenge for April
who could know then 