Hug me and never let go
Bones crush and fuse together
Nerve endings rush forward
to meet and mate;
memories marry and multiply
Your blood flows in our veins
Our heart beats as one
Yes, you complete me.
No prompt. A poem that formed as I walked home from work. To the love I might never have. I drink to my incompleteness and to the month that dawns tomorrow, that expects me to dig deep into my literary loins every single day, 30 days in a row.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
A Promise
That when my palm encircles that tiny finger,
we form a bond, for life.
That I'll crawl with you,
and wait for those pink toes to take their first step.
but when the tables turn,
I will let you walk ahead, and try to catch up.
That my eyes will light up,
every time you walk into a room I am in.
That I'll tell it like it is,
but fight hard to not let the world's prejudice blight your innocence.
That I'll prove by example,
that a real man is unafraid of his emotions; he cries, he hugs and he loves.
That I'll let you choose your own passion,
but be sure to stack your shelves with Blyton, Rowling and when the time comes, Frost.
That I'll be happy with whatever you choose to do with life,
but fervently hope some of that literary passion passed down the genes.
That there will be no unpleasant silence; no void to fill,
we will talk, we will scream, we will cry, we will laugh out loud.
That I'll teach to you stand,and stare and never take for granted the small joys;
to never slight a woman, to never pass on a righteous fight, to never lose your voice.
To lose yourself in music and words, to always make time for yourself,
to never let the weight of the world make you forget the wonder that you are.
To love with all your heart, and forgive just as easily;
that hate is high maintenance; a toxic cocktail you can do without.
To be wise with money and a career,
but to remember that people are the only real assets you'll gather.
To prop you up on the kitchen counter, and let you discover the world of smells and tastes,
and get your hands dirty, to see your first flower bloom.
That when the time comes when you find my company embarrassing,
I'll take a step back or two, and let you walk into adulthood, on your own.
That I'll always believe that after those wonder years of rebellion,
you will come back, to this bond we have, and we'll start over.
To leave in you, all that is good about me, all that is worth passing on,
and work hard to not let my character flaws cloud your persona.
To be glad each day, to be thankful, to be grateful,
for this little life, that is all mine to nurture, sculpt and make a beautiful being out of.
I promise all this, to you, and more, my child...
even if you never are to be mine.
The only prompt for this poem is the need to get this out of my system. I am a person who still doesn't know if he'll ever subscribe to the concept of marriage; it is strange for me to want to write a poem to a child I might never have. But, I just did. :P
The form is the one in which I am at my most unbridled - Free Verse.
we form a bond, for life.
That I'll crawl with you,
and wait for those pink toes to take their first step.
but when the tables turn,
I will let you walk ahead, and try to catch up.
That my eyes will light up,
every time you walk into a room I am in.
That I'll tell it like it is,
but fight hard to not let the world's prejudice blight your innocence.
That I'll prove by example,
that a real man is unafraid of his emotions; he cries, he hugs and he loves.
That I'll let you choose your own passion,
but be sure to stack your shelves with Blyton, Rowling and when the time comes, Frost.
That I'll be happy with whatever you choose to do with life,
but fervently hope some of that literary passion passed down the genes.
That there will be no unpleasant silence; no void to fill,
we will talk, we will scream, we will cry, we will laugh out loud.
That I'll teach to you stand,and stare and never take for granted the small joys;
to never slight a woman, to never pass on a righteous fight, to never lose your voice.
To lose yourself in music and words, to always make time for yourself,
to never let the weight of the world make you forget the wonder that you are.
To love with all your heart, and forgive just as easily;
that hate is high maintenance; a toxic cocktail you can do without.
To be wise with money and a career,
but to remember that people are the only real assets you'll gather.
To prop you up on the kitchen counter, and let you discover the world of smells and tastes,
and get your hands dirty, to see your first flower bloom.
That when the time comes when you find my company embarrassing,
I'll take a step back or two, and let you walk into adulthood, on your own.
That I'll always believe that after those wonder years of rebellion,
you will come back, to this bond we have, and we'll start over.
To leave in you, all that is good about me, all that is worth passing on,
and work hard to not let my character flaws cloud your persona.
To be glad each day, to be thankful, to be grateful,
for this little life, that is all mine to nurture, sculpt and make a beautiful being out of.
I promise all this, to you, and more, my child...
even if you never are to be mine.
The only prompt for this poem is the need to get this out of my system. I am a person who still doesn't know if he'll ever subscribe to the concept of marriage; it is strange for me to want to write a poem to a child I might never have. But, I just did. :P
The form is the one in which I am at my most unbridled - Free Verse.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Don't rain on my parade - (Funny Girl - Barbra Streisand)
An undulating mass of unending charade,
The rhythm tingles each nerve, frozen yet un-dead.
I request thou to not rain on my parade.
What is a lie but a truth half said, or not at all,
What is a secret if not this life of perverse indulgence.
An undulating mass of unending charade.
Each strum a soothing upheaval, a musical salve;
an acknowledgement, or a call for help from the depths.
The rhythm tingles each nerve, frozen yet un-dead.
Blinded by the light, comforted by the hand,
as the dark gives way to a rapidly contracting pupil,
I request thou to not rain on my parade.
The prompt for this one is "take the title of a song and make that the title of your poem".
The prompt doesn't really require you to pay homage to the song. And I haven't. The song is symbolic of Barbra throwing caution to the winds and running after her dreams, and love. Hidden in these words are my attempts to do the same.
The form is a cascade poem.
The rhythm tingles each nerve, frozen yet un-dead.
I request thou to not rain on my parade.
What is a lie but a truth half said, or not at all,
What is a secret if not this life of perverse indulgence.
An undulating mass of unending charade.
Each strum a soothing upheaval, a musical salve;
an acknowledgement, or a call for help from the depths.
The rhythm tingles each nerve, frozen yet un-dead.
Blinded by the light, comforted by the hand,
as the dark gives way to a rapidly contracting pupil,
I request thou to not rain on my parade.
The prompt for this one is "take the title of a song and make that the title of your poem".
The prompt doesn't really require you to pay homage to the song. And I haven't. The song is symbolic of Barbra throwing caution to the winds and running after her dreams, and love. Hidden in these words are my attempts to do the same.
The form is a cascade poem.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Momentary
Fine.
Walk away.
Like I care.
I have Glee tonight.
Heard that movie sucked, anyway.
I will cook that pasta, alone.
I found that cheese and cherry tomatoes.
Your favorite chocolate is in my coat pocket.
I picked up that organic strawberry scented shower gel.
And the blackcurrant gelato we always eat in bed, after.
Anyway, one of those twin bone china bowls broke; good riddance.
And then you turned.
This is my feeble attempt at a progressive format of poem - each line has one word more than the previous one. The prompt for this one is a "turn around poem".
Walk away.
Like I care.
I have Glee tonight.
Heard that movie sucked, anyway.
I will cook that pasta, alone.
I found that cheese and cherry tomatoes.
Your favorite chocolate is in my coat pocket.
I picked up that organic strawberry scented shower gel.
And the blackcurrant gelato we always eat in bed, after.
Anyway, one of those twin bone china bowls broke; good riddance.
And then you turned.
This is my feeble attempt at a progressive format of poem - each line has one word more than the previous one. The prompt for this one is a "turn around poem".
Match
Alighting from the train,
lost in the milling crowd,
staring at the sea of faces.
one of which,
is attached to a hand,
attached to a palm,
contoured to fit like a glove,
into the palm,
attached to the hand,
attached to me.
lost in the milling crowd,
staring at the sea of faces.
one of which,
is attached to a hand,
attached to a palm,
contoured to fit like a glove,
into the palm,
attached to the hand,
attached to me.
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