When my rib broke, it hurt when I laughed, cried, moved, lay still. Now at Christmas, Eid, Halloween, Diwali, my heart cracks at the loss of you.
Heart
When I cannot be there
When I cannot be there
I will think of you
When I cannot hold you close
I will dream of you
When my arms are empty
my heart is full
of love for you
In my heart
I am there for you
Perhaps
There is nobody there I know
You are not there I know
But in the darkness I see your face
and reach for you
Inside my chest I feel your warmth
and reach for you
I reach for you
Perhaps tonight
Perhaps
Metamorphosis
Insect to human was harder. No matter the warmth of smile and hands, heart remained ice. Sal sensed it early but saw it too late.
Machine
The heart is a pump, OK. Arms, legs, OK, they’re levers, I’ve got that. But the spark, the spark that sparks the machine? You know.
Living with a poet
The nets on the quayside are not the wiles with which I charmed you. They’re nets. They’re not the fisherfolk’s dreamcatchers that took our ambition. They’re nets.
The dinghy bobbing on the incoming tide is not your spirit that soared when you first saw me at the party. It’s a boat. It’s not our hopes and dreams before the love tide turned. It’s a boat.
The gulls that swoop down on the flecks of foam are not poembirds. They’re gulls. They are not lyric snatchers from the frothing deep. They’re gulls.
My heart is not – my heart is not a cartoonish pink, arrow-pierced. It’s my heart. It’s not, I’m afraid, any words that you may say. It’s my heart. And yes, it’s broken, but it will mend.
Handcuffs, lost happiness and burns on the carpet
I wake up cold, no blankets, and my heart’s a tip.
You’ve moved out,
leaving handcuffs,
lost happiness
and burns on the carpet.
You booked in to my heart for a short weekend visit
but then put up posters
and turned radiators high.
You said not to worry,
lots of places to go and people to see,
but then you dragged in an evergreen aluminium tree
and put a selfie from Venice on the top.
So what is there left?
Your fingerprints and footprints on the gentle pink paintwork,
your footprints and fingerprints on the remnants of rugs.
I look around
and call around
but my heart’s chambers echo.
You’ve moved out,
leaving handcuffs,
lost happiness
and burns on the carpet.
My ears are dull
My ears are dull.
They do not hear the single threads
you hear in the harmony.
You say that love has many voices –
love is many voices –
braided, sometimes tangled,
voices tied in rope together.
My eyes are dull.
They do not see the single colours
you see in the rainbow.
You say that love has many colours –
love is many colours –
winding, sometimes twisted,
colours kaleidoscoped together.
I hear the chorus, not the voices,
until your voice stands out from others.
I see the rainbow, not the colours,
but without your colour there is no rainbow.
My heart is full.
It feels the endless ribbons
of colour, of voice,
that hold our hearts together.
Jan is home on a Saturday night
Jan is home on a Saturday night. Again.
The doorbell rings. He had thought it might.
Open? Or not to open?
The audience he imagines and his hard-beating heart tell him to open.
So he does.
Life changes for the pale-blue better.
Or
Jan is home on a Saturday night. Again.
The doorbell rings. He had thought it might.
Open? Or not to open?
The audience he imagines and his hard-beating heart tell him to open.
But he doesn’t. He waits.
The doorbell rings again. He had thought it might.
Open? Or not to open?
Half the audience he imagines say yes, the others no. His heart beats hard.
The doorbell does not ring again.
Life changes for the pale-blue.
Or
Jan is home on a Saturday night. Again.
The doorbell rings. He had thought it might.
Open? Or not to open?
The audience he imagines and his hard-beating heart tell him to open.
But his head cautions him to wait.
To wait again.
And wonder why he had waited before. His heart beats.
The doorbell rings again. He had known it would.
Open? Or not to open?
Now the audience he imagines is silent, confused, though his heart still beats hard.
The audience he imagines leans forward, willing him to do one thing or another.
So he does what they want.
Life changes.
At first
At first, then, everything was good.
You know how it is.
After the first doubtful unsureness
The awakening the unfolding
The relaxing and allowing.
You know how it feels.
But then later, perhaps one morning or night,
One weekend or absence, something happened
Or was felt to have been.
You know what it could be.
You remember.
Was it one or the other?
It does not matter you know.
The hairline crack of the heart never heals.
What? Time heals?
No, no it does not.
Time covers.
Time covers.
simonsalento 