When, when exactly?

I have been really busy of late. So busy that I have had little time or heart to write anything. Now, I know this blog was started to help me improve on my prose technique, but this week after a long time away from WordPress, I read Viola Allo’s post, where she spoke of taking a break from writing poetry for some time. Strangely, this was refreshing and inspiring. I have enjoyed her poetry. She writes in a clear, lucid free flowing form that strikes at the heart and is difficult to ignore. But, for some reason still unknown, after hearing her say that she was taking a break, I felt energized to pick up my pen and write. The result is an ode to a friend of mine. I have borrowed some of her unambiguity, but I am sure that my penchant for the subliminal somehow shines through.

So, sorry once again, long poem ahead:

When Exactly?

I sat this afternoon

And I thought…

Do you ever wonder?

When it was that I decided against

Being stuck with you

And actually stuck with you?

Because I too wonder

When exactly?
Perhaps it was the white of

your knuckles squeezed tight against the steering wheel

As you lurched and screeched

Steadily forwards.

Perhaps it was the gleam of your teeth

As they peered from between the

Twin curves of confidence on your face.

It may well be the soft steel

Of your large brown eyes

That drill in orbits through

The Rock in whose cave,

My soft, pinkish insides have found refuge

And pore into my soul.

Who knows?
Maybe it is the pale yellow of your skin

As it stands in stark heavy contrast

With the the mocha brown of mine

As our fingers interlock.

Perhaps it was the blood-red crimson

Of your favorite lipstick

Unwiped as yet on serviette paper

As it frames the pouting fullness of your lips

And makes watching you speak

Nearly as interesting

As listening to you speak.

It could as well have been

But then, who knows?
More likely, it was the glint in your eyes

As you spoke of those who dared to dream.

The set of your jaw, the tilt of your nose as you narrated

Your desire to make every second count.

It maybe was your hurried speech. The little seconds

In between, taken to savor the success that has come before.

The exasperated sighs of frustration to

mark the failures as they line up in

Military procession.

It might be how your back

Stands straight up,

Both against the wall and away from it,

Defying pins and needles.

But I really cannot say,

Cannot remember,

When it struck me

That I was no longer ploughing in the dirt-

I had struck gold.


theMD_muse 2016 ©




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