When He Said He Hated Poetry

[Free Verse]

When he said he hated poetry
Words and lines of form and beauty
It was in truth for you

When he was dry as a desert floor
Speaking less without wanting more
It was so because of you

When he beamed like a summer day
In eyes and cheeks and lips all the way
It was not meant for you

When he shut the door after a glance
And the world stood in a trance
It was all inside of you

When Bliss gave her taste a spoonful
And after you swallowed it a mouthful
It was bitter

Reminders

[Ballad]

Don’t feel special when there’s a start
of a conversation in a screen
She will either give one word to part
or leave you with a hopeless “seen”

Don’t feel special when you meet an eye
With the same black pupils so wide
For those few seconds are a lie
Even though they seem to confide

Don’t feel special when her lips open
to utter words or show a smile
Even when she sounds outspoken
It will only last for a while

Don’t feel special when she lends you
the music that causes her to groove
Everyone does that; nothing new
She only wants you to approve

Don’t feel special when you see ink
that dances around your forearm
It only takes your eyes to blink
to see that it is just her charm

Don’t feel special when you find yourself
with the same crowd she frequents to
Like a book just added to her shelf
You are but pushed through and piled onto

Don’t feel special when you get as close
as two bushes appearing as one
For when you feel lone and need her the most,
She will be there with her sympathy gone

Rain in April

[Petrarchan Sonnet]

In a tropical month of the fourth
There is but a wind as gentle as brush
and old pasture would be the new lush
Bringing a set of tiny footsteps forth

But the heat can be that of west by north
When water is pulled with an upward flush
Then below again, an alien of gush
A repeat from before the month of the fourth

Though there I see the pitter-patter
that challenge the steam like unflinching geese

As the cold absence of usual chatter
warm the chill with the tropic and her fleece

Thus when the ardent sky makes a splatter
It is not for flooding, but for release