It’s two-o’clock,
but it seems like six or seven.
The grayish clouds are thickening;
and it’s starting to drizzle.

As meek droplets
rush to kiss the ground,
an old, familiar melody
begins to play.

As leaves in rust and gold,
waltz to the melancholy tune of autumn,
silent tears march
on cheeks partly pink and yellow.

And as the long, dark
and lonely eve approaches,
an old familiar gloom
looms anew.

Uninvited memories appear out of the bloom,
while nostalgia assumes,
while a lonely heart
yearns anew.

 

 

The walks we had at Normandy,
where the beauty
of coastlines,
of half-timbered houses,
of grazing cattle,
of Mont-St-Michael–
were all not enough,
to take our eyes
away from each other.
 
 
The Gondola rides we had in Venice,
where an ardent gondolier
serenaded us
of La Vie En Rose;
of La Mer;
of L’Hymne a L’Mour-
and yet none of his French repertoire,
was romantic enough,
to have our ears turning pink
for the murmurs we exchanged,
for the kisses we stole
and our rendezvous
‘neath and top the blanket
before and thereafter.
 
 
The snorkel we had in Maui,
where dancing dolphins;
where startled sea turtles,
where coral–pillowing crabs,
were not entertaining enough,
to stop us
from playing under bluewaters
as we teased and chased
one another.
 
 
The gazing we had at Empire State Building,
where the 360 panoramic view of New York City,
nor the stars,
were of grandeur enough,
to keep our hands on the binoculars,
as we fondly held each other.

 
 
 

The glories of once in a lifetime romance,
they were all
so heart-piercing to remember;
and too soul-haunting to forget.

 

 

But hey,
those were not
the way we were.
 
 
For those dreams,
were not
what we used to share.

Like Luther,
we just dreamed a dream.
No one cared.

 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
In a photo album named happy truth,
sepias of two
are carved up on the sky so blue.
 
 
Candid shots of tenderness
subduing down the ocean
from aurora til noon;
 
 
Blazing scenes of two
blend with the red horizon
from sunset til the day is through–
 
 
Holding, cherishing
all the moments spent
for feelings so true.
 
 
 
 

 

Tender limbs quiver,
as bewhiskered slithers.



. . . giving in to the caver;
. . . retreating to the burrower:



quavering,
mewling,



while abandoning morals
and relinquishing principles–



helplessly conceding to an ache that dominates;
feebly letting love and hate collide–



as two ravenous give in
to a passion burning deep inside.

Home says:

It’s okay.
You don’t have to explain
why you’re away,
where are you at,
who you’re with,
neither,
why you’re there
(and not here).

It’s not because,
I am not
interested
to hear your story;
Nor,
I am not concerned
at all;
Or I am not taking
your word for it.

It’s just that,
to know you’re well
and safe,
and happy–
and HAPPY–
I am but relieved.

For more than
this silly wish
to be with you–
I always pray–
always, always pray–
for your happiness–
even if it means,
us, being always apart;
or being away from each other for so long;
or you, being forever far away
from me.

Related Post:
When Heart Finds Its Way Home

 

 

 

The very essence of a man,
is to build
and keep a roof
over his
and his family’s heads-
with all his might;
and, with all his strength.

And to have
in his arms:

 
 

. . . a woman,
who
is respectful enough
to follow his lead
into a world
of their own.

. . . a woman,
who
is trusting enough
to hold his hand
until their bodies repose.

. . . a woman,
who
is faithful enough
to believe him,
when he says,
“You are my home.”