RSS Feed

Daily Archives: May 22, 2014

No Regrets – Promote Yourself

 

Rain that washes o’er my soul
And hides the tears
Rolling down my cheeks
Each time I think of you
And the way things were
Before I knew you.

Are you still the same person
I met, and loved, and married?
Do you still think of me
With longing?
Is there still a place for me
In your heart?

I see you there,
I watch and stare.
Do you still see me?
Do you gaze at what is?
Or at what was
When love was new?

Life moves on
And we move with it.
Changes no man
Could foresee
Turning hair grey
And muscles to jelly.

All those years
Fighting back tears.
And why?
Did it make a difference
To the way we felt;
To the way we feel?

Would life have been so different
If love had not smiled upon us?
Would there be regrets
That could not be assuaged?
Would love have hidden
All our faults and failings?

Then came the children.
Fun and laughter,
Tears and sorrow,
Pain and pleasure
Mixed in tiny packages
That needed love and comfort.

No time for us.
No time to sit and talk.
Tiredness
Takes over our lives
As we suppressed our needs
In favour of those who needed us more.

And so it goes.
Time’s relentless journey
Marches on.
The children grow
And meet their own loves
And leave an empty nest.

What is there left to say?
Is it time for reflection?
Time to sit and wallow in our past?
Time to grieve what once was ours
But which no longer stirs emotions?
Is this our time?

Oh no. Not us.
Our interests have developed
In different directions.
What, now, do we have
In common with the way we were?
What is there left to talk about?

We’ve changed,
You and I.
We’re not the same;
Not the same people
Who met, and loved,
And married.

We’ve grown and learned
So many different things.
Money-making.
Home-making.
Do we long for that which used to be?
Oh no. Not you and I.

So now I sit
As raindrops wash my soul
And hide the tears
Rolling down my cheeks,
Washing away
The memories.

And you sit with me.
Still here, still faithful
To each other.
Oh how we’ve changed
For the better
Since first we met.

I see it in your eyes that you remember
The boy you met, and loved and married;
The boy who stole your heart
And gave you his in return.
And I remember you the way you were.
And all that came to test our love.

Unbreakable love
That stands the test of time.
I reach for your hand and there we sit,
Raindrops washing over our souls,
Hiding the tears
Of love and joy with no regrets.

Michael Jenkins


Dear Poetree Creations,

Please find, below, a copy of my poem, No Regrets, for potential inclusion on your website.

Where do I live? Wales, UK

Who am I? I blog at Harcourt51.co.uk, where I post articles and poems with the intention of encouraging people to think.

I am a 50-something man who was made redundant, last year. As there are limited opportunities for people of my age, I am hoping to create an alternative income stream from my writing. I enjoy photography and I have recently self-published an anthology of my poems, together with linked photos, on Amazon. The book is entitled, Grandpa’s Poetic Way. The poem, below, concludes the book.

I hope that it is suitable for inclusion on your website and look forward to hearing from you.

Kind regards,

Michael

 

To My Wife – Your Favourite Poem

rose
I can write no stately pro-em
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.

by Oscar Wilde

HE WRITES – Promote Yourself

 

gif
It is not a sinecure,

it is a wonder-wall,

where he sits, imperceptible,

quiet, but cynical.

He is an alturist, but not credulous,

he writes, and writes to be mysterious,

so, from his catalogue of themes,

he picks, what is not what it seems,

That which is invisible, is visible to him,

’cause he uses not his eye, but the heart within,

he is oblivious, thought, to his vicinity,

there are pages, that enrich his legacy.

His anthropology tells him to be pervious,

to write for the soul, and not the fastidious,

because what pleases one, might not please thee,

but to offend none, illegible his mind should be.

He paints himself a kingdom,

on the canvas of grace,

he draws the king, the gods, the bourgeois,

and quotes what the bigot says.

He conspires the regicides,

in his invincible fortress, he writes.

Self-callous, for days and nights,

insatiable still, he writes.

Soporific now, are the dim lights,

exuberantly enough, he writes…

Parimal Pratyush

 

%d bloggers like this: