Thursday, 19 February 2015

the most uninteresting person

a very wise and intelligent person told me that people walk in and out of your life; that persistence, and indeed, love, is a chance of timing. what makes it stick is just like what i find interesting - in a novel, a movie, a piece of art, a song - who can really tell, even one's own? one day you may like kittens, and another day puppies; one day you may like melancholy, and another you may find white noise the most acceptable thing to accompany you, while other days yet, you may languish in eerie silence; one day you may lust for that sweet, bitter chocolate, where another you may find all wanting but for spice and hot of chilli and peppers. who can tell, for the interplay between subject, self and environment is something far too complex for your simple mind to predict, and for my simple tongue to express.

an expression i once came to distinct between wisdom and intelligence is:
an intelligent wizard knows that facing a dragon is folly. a wise one never would.
i learned this from dungeons and dragons.

clearly my wise and intelligent friend spoke in cryptic because she had never come to meet the wyverns and werebeasts of the relationship world - one never can when she is most beauteous and charming. for the few of us gifted and endowed to make steel and spell of unwanted visage or character, fight on!

Friday, 13 February 2015

that name i could not remember

this name i hear you mention, as if i’ve heard it before,
sworn to speak it in ill light, and thenceforth nevermore;
although i think now i recall with passing memories fond,
a sweetened smell, like oranges, with mildew wiped upon.

surfaced now through thickened thoughts like ether made of tar,
beyond my loathsome recesses or mayhap from afar;
i see it now, but then it’s gone, this visage of a face,
that haunting smile with playful grin, like hallowed death’s embrace.

say it now, but one more time, that i remember yet,
was it a child? was it a friend? someone that i had met?
upon a family dinner or in a vivid dream maybe?
or was it underneath the stars, over a cup of tea?

ah, yes, i see, i recall now, the times were not but one,
they spanned from moonlit, humid nights, to days under the sun;
that time we spent our lazy hours, skipping stones by the pool,
all the while just waiting on ourselves to be made fools;
while turning fronds and browning leaves that from the treetops hung,
where colourful, wild flowers hid and careless mushrooms sprung;
and in my hand - that name it sighs - a wreath of soft, blonde hair,
its silken gleam of angels’ tears for sight, my soul should bear.
then came the foretold drizzled drops, to cleanse our tired eyes,
lay giggling like mad children waiting for this earth’s demise;
and when my breath would catch upon a glaring, spiteful breeze,
i’d clench that lei of hopeful strands, and leave my heart at ease -
let chirping swallows, buzzing bees, to lead these eyes astray,
like leaves whisked on a gentle wind,

remains yet but an image, poor, beyond my feeble mind,
a sorrowed tune, so sickly sweet, a memory i can’t find;
how would i to describe this feel, a sordid jamais vu,
that tells of past and future tales before they have come true.

a glaring blanche to pierce my eyes, that squinting sightless blind,
bedazzled states, and wild-run legs to lead a clueless mind;
as i recall, a daisy ‘pon a sun hat that she donned,
a jewelled glow for silken skin, that prances with light shone;
it seems so faint, but all too real, that brief ephemeral touch,
that meant nigh all to one, but to the other, nothing much?
yet paled the light in contrast to what grainy sea-swept floes,
that makes it hide and slinks with tide between less nimble toes;
oh, of the sea! i recall now! through which we ran at pace!
and when we stopped to catch our breaths, it reflected her face -
a perfect smile, and nonchalant, i hear her laugh so coy,
my heart fills with the same she had;
that mirth,
that gay,
that joy.

as if it were to prey upon the unwitting and slow,
the sun had set, the tides had gone, the grass had ceased to grow;
but in their stead, fall ochre leaves, and rustling winds like mad,
if change is all that we can hope, it must be good (and bad).

those sanguine leaves that creeped upon a bridge, a stump, a wall,
had she been sly? had she been quick? had she been short, or tall?
it must have seemed a little dense, how with the undergrowth,
what lies beneath her perfect smile, was just a bit of both;
’twas not too dinned, that starry eve, just like her person true,
but misconstructed shallow gifts, would make the day i rue:
for this, you see, is how her name, now tarnished, to forget,
i weeped a against the shallow tune of crickets at sunset;
how could it be that twilight came, sent shivers down my spine,
to recollect her name instead, when she’d forgotten mine;
i see it now, etched in the clouds that whisper through the night,
i’d lull upon her fingertips,
i wish,
i may,
i might.

but warmth evades this very thought,grows tenebrous and cold,
it haunts me even in my sleep, as sure as i grow old;
but seasons turn, as minds do fade, just as her thoughts of mine,
but who’s to say that in mine stead, is something less sublime?

for in that final hour or with its fast encroaching fare,
my hopes for one last stroke of luck, i beg of this you spare;
as holy as i clenched upon that golden lock of hair -
but how could i to cherish what was smeared beyond repair?
you see, what once was temperate to the touch, is now so icy cold,
as if her sun-touched mere embrace is now bereft of soul;
and with it borne a frigid stare, what piercing blue-green eyes,
such that all that had been our truth is now but paltry lies,
yet who could blame such detached glance, that skewed and sent away?
for all that would to speak my name had perished with the day.

but how would it be described now, this decrepit, white shame? was it a truth? a mere facade? a folly of a game?
if you permit, that it should have no bearing all the same - ’twas love, you see, that’s what she was; indeed, that was her name.