Her Face in My Heart

When I was ready to depart, I saw her face,
sitting by herself, so calm and serene. I tried
recalling the words rehearsed for so many days
but sweat broke on my temple and my throat went too dry…

With a bleeding heart, I limped away from her face,
into the falling darkness of the night, thinking,
who am I but a soul, putrefied beyond cognizance…

As the distance rose between me and her,
my desire to look back kept growing too intense
to be curbed, yet I fought with all my heart until
the dusty, barren road took a turn and
she could no longer be seen, even if I tried…

Hours later as I sit miles away
from both her palpable world and abstract realm of thoughts
I wonder how much of her face has truly been
forgotten and how much I still have in my throbbing heart!

My Idiosyncratic Love

Come, take my hand and let us go,
where the flowers bloom in a million colors still
and the butterflies spread their wings
from one charming shade of brightness to another!

There the sun is mild all day long
and the nights glow with the moon or the distant stars.
There no sound flies save the sweet songs
of sparrows, starlings, finches and nightingales.

Let us take a stroll down the strip
of bare ground, winding through the old deciduous trees,
carved perhaps by the gentle deer hoofs,
across the Eden, unspoiled still from humankind!

There the wind blows in soothing gusts,
diffused with a million exotic aromas
from all those blooming flowers, wild
and unstained with the perversions of human mind.

Once we reach there, you shall see
how my idiosyncratic love grows, endless and free…

Three Phases of Love

A. Initiation…

As a silent warmth begins to radiate
from her sweet, vibrant skin to my rugged one,
we both gasped for a shred of air before
diving headfirst into the unknown sea of love…

And then beneath the moaning waters, crowned
with white and foamy crowns, we morph into
the waves and the shore, in random turns,
till a violent surge wears our passion for a while…

B. Realization…

No matter how far I may go, her face
would never let me have a moment’s peace
and solitude. I have tried (though in vain)
to put a mountain in between myself
and her memories, only to realize
that her face can penetrate any breadth of stone.

I have tried refilling a sea as well,
to be far away on the other side
of her memories, only to realize
that no distance is too great for her face to haunt.

I have tried living on the clouds, so high
and so far removed from the world of realities
but there too her face has been persistent,
rendering me unable to love another soul.

C. Conclusion…

Like fallen leaves we fall to the ground,
dreaming of rain to flood the forest floor,
when the trenches there both deep and sublime
will burst to life with water flowing down…

Then for one last time we may look up at the sky
and marvel at the brightness of the azure stretch
as the rivers of our life shall embrace at last
the endless ocean of death once and forever.

The Simple Touch of Her Face

Has it been this long already?
I shivered at the speed of time…

How I miss the softness of grasses, green
beneath my naked feet and the sky,
overhead, blue and white, where the clouds play
hide and seek with the rising sun!

And I miss the fountains too, flowing down
from rain and ice onto the rocky ground,
to sire the clear streams that become
mighty rivers in a wide spate!

If I could float effortless with the flow,
might have found a sea and those rivers in embrace…

But more than all those haughty dreams combined,
I long for the simple touch of her face in my arms!

So Her Fidelity

The poem is conceived after reading a report on The Daily Mail


So her fidelity is a bit dubious and
possibly not too firm as well but I wonder,
why should her life exist in the realm of my thoughts!

Who is she but someone I know nothing about,
beyond a given name and a made up face with it,
chiseled smooth from too many years of cajoling!

Well, I can discern between love and libido
and I know, for sure, what I felt was neither one…

Still, what baffles me is why should I feel the pain,
as if the victim is none other than myself!

Perhaps the memories are projecting my past
of a barren bitterness on her present life…

Or perhaps it is my present, gone amorous
from four long years of too little sleep, at silent nights!