Saturday, 9 April 2011

Perfect Strangers

Now there are days, and there are days,
A couple, a week, and no more,
Yet enough, to make togetherness feel new.

Then there will be the keeping of watch
Over the many years, and the comings
And goings of days will fade into nothing.

Such is time now, and such will time be then
And not knowing you will be a ritual
I will perhaps grow used to.

And we will perfect strangers then
Like we were perfect lovers once.

Of forgetting and remembrance

In pain, in loss, in memory
I can draw contours of your face;
In bliss, I held you too close
To ever recall how you looked.

And yet all forgetting
Is not mere erasure,
Perhaps from there begins
Knowing and all remembering.


Heartbreak came late,
in twilight years,
Lurking to deal
The greater blow.

She was a jilty little thing
Saucy mouth and cocky airs
A bit of another and her mother
And I was another ogler of her charms.

Youth allowed her cruelty
And pity was all I could hope for
Yet perhaps, she might have
A kind little heart

Who glances at me and remembers
One akin to her father, as I stood,
Silhouetted against the pitiless sun
 In these twilight years.

My Mad Woman

Gathering in silence my armour of anger
I prepare to war
My mad woman,
Locked up in the mind-attic now.
Armies of another time, place, gather
Ranging the fringes of childhood, innocence
Of a faraway self who is not I
But grew up to be me.

Now, far beyond reproach is she,
I merely question
The accidents or dreams
That led her to be.


Possession is an entrapment;
His arms or her eyes
Whatever it might be
Hell within and worse without.

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