2017 : April

The Spring is seen from up above,
The Winter from below;
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know, it’s so.

The sunlight shone upon the door
That lead me to your room;
The day was bright, as I recall,
The fields were all abloom —
You greeted me with such a kiss
As few men ever get:
As your cat watched with interest our
Unfolding minuet.

The Spring is like a Mondrian,
The Winter like Van Gogh;
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know, it’s so.

We played a game of skipping-jacks
Upon your bedroom floor;
The stakes were high, the tactics low,
I lost my shirt, and more —
The sun came through the gauzy drapes,
And we could feel the breeze
That brought you to the April brink
And brought me to my knees.

The Winter’s like an ocelot,
The Spring, a calico —
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know, it’s so.

We drank the cup of many vines,
And savored every drop;
We then had tortes and eclairs, with
Some whipped cream on the top;
We used each part of both our tongues,
And fully knew each taste,
For April would be all there was;
We had no time to waste.

And when I tried to leave
You bade me stay, and took me in;
The cat was on the countertop,
And there was quite a din —
I think some dishes maybe fell,
And shattered in the sink;
Although I really couldn’t say,
And couldn’t really think.

The Spring is like an opening,
The Winter’s like a close,
Though we get lost in wondering
Where youth and passion goes —

But everytime is still the best
We’ll ever have, or know —
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know,
It’s so

followings: 9

the light can change,
we see things differently.
perhaps
what was and wasn’t
meant to be.

but i know this:
you left me still a man,
and though there’s little else
i understand,

i wish you well
wherever you might be,
for light can change
those few things we
can see

followings: 7

the days i still recall
as much as any nights;
but men don’t think that way,
so women say

misunderstanding runs
while sympathy still limps,
and yet, it doesn’t have to be
that way

i think that i know well enough
the boundaries and lines
that we must have to shield off
who we are

yet days i still recall,
as much as any nights —
the lunches more than just
the caviar