Turn over and sleep.

For all the promises made,
And all declared vows to keep,
When need arises to prove –
Just turn over and sleep.

With all the blood that rushes
In to wounds that run so deep;
When hopeful chance comes to heal,
Just turn over and sleep.

As a heartache comes coursing,
Forcing one to lay and weep,
When gentlest words are needed –
Just turn over and sleep.

Maybe it is all karmic:
One sows in order to reap;
So, when harvest comes calling,
You must turn over and sleep.

The Trend.

I watched the waves.
They crashed into the rocks.
A done-to-death metaphor.

I saw the foam stick.
I saw the spray hit the air.
While you slept.
Blissful.
The trend of all lovers.
Once the passion is dead.

The sea will recede.
The rocks at least have faith.
The sea will return.

I walk back home.
To my side of the bed.
Sleepless and faithless.

Summer Day

Good things do not last long, it’s the truth;
They fade out, they vanish, they end;
I keep thinking they will last, last through time;
I cling on to hope, I grasp, I even pretend.

The good is relative, the wise ones say;
The good comes and goes only to come again.
The wise ones nod their wise heads and ask:
What is it that I really hope to retain?

I do not like the wise, they instil doubt;
They make the good not seem so good;
And I wonder if I hope, for what was that?
And if I hope again, if I really should?

I think and I think and wisdom surfaces;
I can almost feel the wise ones smile;
I see myself a little clearer, the same truth,
That I disregarded for a little while.

It is a sign of a deep seeded analysis,
Of some jargon from freudian slips,
Of hurt that male figures left behind,
On my doubtful soul, on my hungry lips.

I see this truth again, and feel the scorn
Of all those who claim to be so very wise;
I see myself as I forever have,
Through the ones I want, their very eyes.

I wish I knew how to make peace
With this clueless boy within me.
How do I make him understand
All that is but what he cannot see?

The perspective of self, mirror and eyes,
Will always wary, so maybe stick to one?
The wise ones will always say, perhaps,
There is no choice, when there is but one sun.

So as wisdom prevails I must tell him
Look to self, let mirror and eyes shatter;
Men will come and go, come and go,
It’s only you that will, in the end, matter.

The rain in the bow

She was someone’s daughter.
He was someone’s son.
What bitter hate was this
to deny love and end laughter?

What horror they must have seen!
What fear they must have felt!
What torment they must have known!
What a night it must have been!

Her father must be fading away
His mother must be bereft
To know their children suffered
For no reason but loving their way.

OLD FRIEND

I have nothing else to say to you now.
I have nothing more to offer or give.
I have spent my heart, I have kept each vow.
You forget all and I cannot forgive.
The torture of the heart (and there is one)
Is akin to a murder by drowning;
And all that was felt and said and done
Is now a matter for blackened mourning.
Words, like gales, seem to rush past as you leave,
Feelings, however, will not leave with you;
I have lost my faith, I cannot believe,
I cannot discern just which past was true.
And so, old friend, you have prepared me well:
I doubt heaven, I’m undaunted by hell.

Let the Tears Drop

I look for your hair stuck onto clothes I wore,
When you were still alive.
I find some on the mattress near the door
And my heart takes a dive
Into darkness of loss and sorrow,
And I realize you are gone,
There won’t be you in a tomorrow,
And I am caught and forlorn,
Pirouetting in life’s inanity
Of loving and losing and loving again.
Tomorrow is an endless sea,
Filled with murky waters of pain,
I’ll hold onto the shaft of memory,
Just to keep myself afloat.
It will sink eventually
I will get another boat.
Such is life, we move on;
But sometimes I stop;
Notice you are gone
And let the tears drop.

Losing Parts of My Soul

and winter brings with it each year,
a weariness from the last tear
that tore its way out from my eye
with no will to lay down and die;
it’s not a proper death, my dear,
it’s a theft, a little each year,
yes, i resent this on the whole,
losing little parts of my soul,
little here, little there, little
went down the drain with my spittle;
so why do tears fall with those leaves?
why does the brain think as the heart grieves?
what answer I seek has nature guessed,
or has she in autumn confessed?
why is the tear still forming to flow?
what is it i do not in full know?
Is it the blight man was born for?
Is it me I quietly mourn for?

– inspired by loss
and by the climax of Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins