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.
Maybe.
But I really cannot say,
Cannot remember,
When it struck me
That I was no longer ploughing in the dirt-
I had struck gold.
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