Love is like a wine

 

 

Passion is like gold. All mine is spent.

You are the key to this dear heart of mine,

In that I’ve no idea where you went.

Love is like a wine: you had all mine.

 

If “music is the food,” the larder’s shut.

If romance were a music, you are folk.

If friendship were a chord, the string is cut:

You are my backbone, truly. You are broke.

 

If summer is for sex, the leaves have gone.

If days were ours to spend, I think you might

Consider checking if you’re overdrawn.

If love’s forever: it’s been a lovely night.

 

 

 

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Too Quiet

You call me quiet. You said, “You are too quiet.”

If only you weren’t so meek.”

Perhaps I’m weak.

Perhaps I lack the lewdness or the knack

To rise above the din,

Skin paper thin,

To soar above the nightlife you so love,

Awake until awakeness loses meaning.

Perhaps I’m only here for evenings in.

But one day when you’re out, and then,

Loudness deafens you with “Just Because,”

I wonder if you’ll wonder, quietly, where “Quiet” was.

Perhaps your ear will ache, too hurt to hear,

You’ll step outside, look up, and face

A quiet space:

You’ll wonder what has pierced your gut.

Maybe then, I’ll be ever so near:

But you’ll have no idea.

The Biggest Softie

 

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I will not budge. No, sir. I will however

be picked up and cuddled.” Thus spake he

Who bundled himself in grumbles of delight

And trundled over carelessly.

 

A beanbag full o’ beans. A playful plushie

Designed by a happy, whimsical god

Who wrote his name backwards, and so described

A walking loaf of brioche in his plod.

 

Why would one fear a softer world,

Which dough-ball doggies barely comprehend?

No fear for he who never feared;

No foes, when all the world’s a fondest friend.

 

Pugnacious, possibly? A pugilist,

Heavyweight in his own modest rank?

He’ll bare his soppy self for all to see.

Frank is himself, quite frankly, rather frank.

 

For Frank.

“Risk” – for L.

 

Dedicated to a good friend of mine, an actuary who specialises in pensions. Knows a fair bit about the concomitant distribution of risks. “Risk” has become his motif, for me: the vulnerability of seeking romance. Currently unlucky in love, he’s shared a great deal of time with me over the last few months, and a great many glasses of wine: and I look forward to seeing how deservingly splendid his future becomes.   

 

 

It’s about managing risk, I guess.

How we factor for loss

 

Who takes the onus: how

Hurt is distributed

 

Projections only ever tell

The algorithm’s story. It can never

 

Tell the human how to cling to this,

Spread tender moments over final years

 

As ochre tones spread sunsets

Out to sea

 

 

 

But I think this is the

Life well-lived. I see

 

A lasting glance. The company of hours

Between us, this shared chance:

 

Pouring thoughts as delicately

As a glass, lip-red,

 

Held sideways, tender under

A fragile light;

 

Seen for its colours.

 

What Am I

 

 

If you were an element, it would be fire:

Raging, warming, ever changeable.

If I were an element, I would be smoke.

 

If you were an animal, you would be wild,

Savage, strong, adept: untamable.

If I were an animal, I would be human.

 

For mythical beasts, I’d take you for a dragon,

Mighty in roar, and gold, with scales of lead.

If I were mythical, I’d be a man.

 

If you were “What am I?” you’d be twenty questions,

Each more devious, until the end.

If I were What am I, here is the answer.

 

 

Games such as “Who am I?”, or assigning animals, elements or even Pokemon to one another to match our characters, always leaves me feeling distinctly and irreversibly human. Half rhymes throughout, with clunker non-rhymes at the end of stanzas to really drive home the mundaneness of the real What Am I. 

 

Waiting Gold

 

How can three cheers, the rush, and the cascade

Of memories reside so patiently

In glass so dark, weighs in the hands like stone?

Who trapped the new year, captured the parade,

The happy day, in glass so perfectly,

The genie somnolent in shade, alone?

The lamp that holds the light, can scarce contain

An ecstasy in waiting, somehow still

And silent in her case, sleeps on a shelf;

Bubbles motionless while hours remain,

The promise patient, dreaming now, until

We relish in the taste of gold, herself:

Pop! Flurried fast and colour-flourishing,

Overflowing froth in glasses shared:

Chink together glasses, for at last,

We share the wealth of kindness nourishing!

These treasured promises of hope declared,

The golden view of futures, and our past.

This was a poem written for another dear follower of mine, who only asked that the subject of the work should be champagne. Initially, my focus was on the anticipation, the patient silence of a waiting bottle. Later he requested an additional two stanzas on the actual enjoyment of the wine. Cheers.

Impressions

 

 

A bridge, above all else, insinuates

separateness.

 

A clock tells us, most urgently, when time

is not passing.

 

The wedding in a ritual in honour

of death, alone.

 

Every clenched fist, in every strike,

was a failed kiss, once.

 

Every man on earth will tell you gold

is quite worthless.

 

 

A few pleasing paradoxes, written in an uncharacteristically brief and non-rhyming structure.