The Prizefighter

August 17, 2014

He was rugged,
unromantic.
Never lost in war;
never played at love.
Solid to the touch
and to the test.
But in that first kiss,
she saw behind the intricate veil
of his public persona
and into the delicacy of his soul.
In that first kiss,
she felt her prizefighter soften.
When she was in his arms,
they lived together in a magical kingdom,
where his strength and his love
would keep her safe forever.

Today’s Prompts

August 4, 2014

In my eternal absence,
do not feel alone.
But rather, feel me around you
In the very pulse of the universe.

Let the wind blow through your hair,
and let the rain wash down your face;
let the Sun warm your lips,
for I am the wind, I am the rain, I am the Sun.

Inspired by #fieryverse.

The Poet

October 25, 2012

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

And with a thousand rhymes,
I’ve lost a thousand times
for none of them did last.
Every love I ever wrote
has faded into past.
And every girl I write to life,
I take to higher climes,
with deeper loves and longer verse
but every foray ends the same
– as though I have been cursed –
for every poem ends in pain,
a trend that’s growing worse.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

But for a thousand years
or so it seems,
I’ve written only tears.
And a thousand dreams
have left me only fears,
for none have ended happily.
Just like all my poetry;
When the final line is writ
I am left with only me
and any light that might have lit,
once the poem ends, dies with it.
And the thousand loves I’ve brought to be
have all thus waned inevitably.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

Oh, I have loved a thousand women;
None of them were real.
Not one of them could feel
the love I felt for her.
The heartbeats that I wrote
were never really there
and all the forms my pen caressed
and all the faces fair,
all the golden hair
and all the moments shared
existed only on the page,
the fickle paper stage
I made for them
to dance upon,
for them to love me on –
I, the only one who ever cared.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

A thousand dreams;
a thousand lines;
a thousand rhymes;
a thousand smiling pairs of eyes;
a thousand women
in my mind.
And if my mind’s where they must be,
then what is in this world for me?
Why live on interminably
if I must be so lonely?
A thousand loves I’ve had;
a thousand lives I’ve lived
and yet I’m left so sad.
For they are all behind
but who’s to say that they weren’t real?
And who’s to say that I won’t find
a thousand more in time?
I only need to write another opening line…

I have loved a thousand women;
all of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles.
I’ve lived a thousand lives
and loved a thousand times,
all inside my mind.
So why go back outside?

 

-D&W

Read more: Poetry Here and Now

Beyond the Horizon

July 19, 2012

She opens her eyes.
Immediately, she has to cover her face,
shielding from the Sun,
squinting.
She faces into the wind,
a young girl –
she looks maybe 19, maybe older –
innocent, bright,
and her hair flicks across her lips.
She adjusts to the Sun after a moment
and she looks out across the sea,
almost as blue as her eyes.
From where she stands,
it seems eternal.
She stands on sands of gold,
her bare feet slightly sinking
into the soft ground.
The sun is hot and her feet burn a little,
but they feel cooler under the surface.
The air smells of salt and a certain sweetness
and apart from the wind and the waves
there is no sound.
She’s completely alone on the beach
and she doesn’t even look around her to check,
just gazes across the ocean towards the horizon.
What is beyond that ever distant line, she wonders.
She wears a light white linen dress that dances in the wind
and small specs appear where the surf blows up
and she feels it on her face too;
blinking, she lifts a hand to wipe the moisture away
and to brush her hair aside.
She watches the clouds crawling and curling
from over the horizon and wonders again,
where have they come from.
She imagines the wind that blows in her face
filling the sails of some grand ship,
carrying all the people she has ever known and ever loved.
She imagines it rising over the horizon,
from that mysterious other place,
sails fat with the sweet salty wind.
She even thinks she sees it, for a second,
coming closer,
coming to collect her.
She raises her arms in the air
and feels a gust of wind wash over her,
and she wonders what is beyond the horizon
and as her ship comes nearer,
she knows she will soon find out,
and she smiles broadly
as the light from the sun shines brighter
and as I look down on you
lying frail in a bed you didn’t choose,
searching for recognition in your grey eyes
I see your breathing shallow
and feel your hand relax in mine.
For a moment, I think I see a hint of a smile and
I wonder what’s beyond the horizon
and I wish for a heaven that I don’t believe in.

Do not ask the poet.

July 4, 2012

Do not ask the poet
to explain his work to you
not that you avoid offense
but for he can not help.

No poet knows the truth
his works bear forth
for once they have been writ
poet and poem are cleft apart.

Should a poet try to tell you
what his words convey
listen not, dear reader
for he can not but misinform.

The meaning of any poem
can be found only by reading
or else by listening, wherein
it will whisper to you its truth.

And if anyone disagrees
with the truth that you have learned
tell him that that he is not wrong
but that you are right.

For there may be a thousand truths
to any one poem
just as there can be a thousand faces
in any one mirror.

And do not be surprised if,
upon further readings
the meaning of a poem has changed
for this is their wont.

With the reader’s every experience
and with the passage of time,
just like the faces in the mirror,
what we see within will change.

A poem is alive
and it grows and evolves with
every new read
and every new reader.

Thus, the poet can never know
the truth his poem bears forth
as no poet can control the meaning
his works convey.

Ashes

July 1, 2012

To be so close
To almost have it all
To reach out with my hands
Fingers stretched
And almost be able to touch
And then
To take that final step
To grasp, to hold, to clutch it to my chest
To feel the divinity of realised desires
To bring it to my face
To breath it in
To touch it to my lips
To taste
But O, to find only ashes in my mouth.

End of Days

June 25, 2012

As the sun shone it’s final shine,
And the clock chimed it’s final chime;
As we watched the final tick of time,
I looked up at the sky,
Looking for a sign
But all I saw
Was twilight fall
In the hours of early morn
And that was when I knew for sure
That everything we knew was gone.

I listened to the birdsong fade,
And the patter of the dying rain,
And as we reached the final grain
The final minutes of the game
As everlasting darkness came
The world knelt down to pray
But I knew it was far too late
That there was nothing left to say
To man nor god
On this, the end of days.

If the heart is where Love can be found,
that explains the pulse
the inconsistency
the breaking up and making up
the on and off and on again.

If Love lives in the heart,
I understand why now and then
the booming beat of shouts and screams
and we-are-throughs
gets so damn loud.

If the heart is home to Love,
then that is why
no matter ups and downs
there’s just no way
that I could live apart from you.

Places

June 5, 2012

There are places,
hidden inside,
where I can go to be alone.

There are corners,
in my heart,
where I can only feel the beat.

There are cracks
within my mind
where reason does not tread.

There are times,
on the inside,
when I never want to go back out.

Rich

May 3, 2012

You can’t survive on love, you told me
but why? Money can’t hold me,
the way you do and I can’t find warmth
in any shelter as well as in your smile
that melts the worries of a life away
and at the end of every day,
your kiss tastes better and gives
more nourishment than any meal
and when my hand’s in yours
I feel protected; so much safer
than locked doors and real walls
could ever be. I see in your eyes
a future that no fortune could bring –
a hope and a happiness
beyond material things
and I know that though we may be poor
with you my heart sings
and you can be sure
that I could live forever
on just your love.