I never wanted…
I never wanted to follow a line
rigid and unwavering,
I wanted my mind
to be its own master favouring
a break from the clutches of history
and past transgressions.
Does time have a way of healing?
As an age passes,
floating down the river of memories,
does it wash you clean?
Do the sands of time
erode wretched memories like some ancient Egyptian artefact,
so only fragments of historical splendour remain,
a glimpse of past magnificence?
Past magnificence and past transgressions,
the two combined lead only to wishes of regression;
to reclaim bygone glories,
to bury former iniquities.
Iniquities which cause ripples in the fish-bowl mind,
ripples that could easily fracture
the thin membrane which binds
the deep depth inside.
One time, ages past
but still relived through a daily remembrance,
the ripples became so severe
to almost cause a severance
between the two.
That was not good.
The night lay outside your open window,
the sounds of the city were letting themselves be known;
the revelry of intoxicated traffic,
adorned with occasional sirens urgently, wantonly calling,
whilst you both lay naked on the bed,
lights off, allowing the street-lights to send their halo-
their electronic, ethereal glow –
through the panes of your window,
trying to illume all that lay inside.
You were laying naked with your woman,
your limbs entwined around each others natural states;
touching each other sensitively, finding the secret places,
as if each of your bodies had been mapped before –
you each knew where your fingers should go,
could go, did go…
Finding the warm, wet, moist circle;
exploring tentatively, lovingly, gently-
probing the initial discovery with a thrill,
the thrill being met with a low, sensual, moan.
She reciprocates; her fingers grip your sex,
and both in unison, as if predetermined,
you lips touch –
gently at first, then the deepest passion takes control…
From both your deepest desires you met;
your bodies start to crave each other,
your sex slowly, but with an urgent purpose,
enters into your lover.
You fill her with a passion, a longing;
a deep rooted enchantment,
something both your souls feel from deep within…
That these memories, this recollection,
this time – was twenty years ago,
makes this time glorious, nostalgic;
but it leaves your soul feeling so forlorn,
so lost on a distant shore,
as if waiting for some vessel to rescue you…
I remember those days,
Days of love and sun,
Sat in my room,
With sun throwing its beams through the window,
Hot summer days and sparkling, mystic nights;
And Love was flowing along its dream like there were no tomorrows.
Books were digested, devoured, loved.
Wisdom gained from the pages of history;
Words flowing along the river of knowledge,
Soaking into the consciousness.
Learning, just learning
About an ethos of understanding – and of compassion.
And I remember how things were;
The love made,
the rhythmic pulsing of naked bodies
Locked together in a passion
Which would fill the soul with its beauty, desire and charm.
And they were days of innocence;
Of lustful longing and a heart full of desire;
Those warm summer days spreading their rays of warmth
Into an innocent heart full of a thirst for knowledge, of life,
For the ones I loved.
A Poem about the early days.
Such an indescribable feeling,
a warmth radiating outwards from the core,
expelling any vestiges of remaining chill;
like the sun at the dawn of spring
melting away the shimmering, icy, silky cobwebs of a past winter.
And it was during those years of youth,
(It seems like a different age now – how time can alter)
during the relentless march of those late spring days
– breaking through to summer
that I remember the teacher one Friday afternoon
as the sun blazed through the window,
acknowledging the feeling we had,
for I guess I was not singular in its effect,
praising its beauty, its charm,
– the sunlight
– the warmth
causing a blossoming of feelings
For her only,
that’s how it was back in the halcyon days
– of innocence
– of inexperience
days of long summer nights –
made all the more vivid,
through euphoric thoughts of what might be,
of what might have been.
And it would leave me enchanted,
intoxicated with its desire
with a potency which would fill the soul
through its beauty,
and its charm.