Reflections on Adolescent Romance

"I don't want a boyfriend yet!" said the girl across the phone,
Hung up and left the starstruck youth bedazzled by her tone.
The import of her eloquence took a few days to sink in
But when it did, and he caught the gist, our hero lost his vim.

"Why?" he moaned incessantly, he could not be consoled.
His long-time friends could not quite see the reason for his woes.
Each day he rose, he went to school, came back and went to bed
And despite his past proficiency his school-grades hit the red.

Now let us take a short recess, to take a bird's eye view
Of the situation hereby placed, and examine it in lieu
Of jumping to conclusions as regards our hero's fate
And also the decision of his flighty would-be mate.

Perhaps we shouldn't be too harsh on a maiden we haven't met:
She must have had her reasons to get in such a pet.
Mayhap the twit offended her, or suggested something blue.
Insensitivity on the one hand may have caused the ballyhoo.

On the other hand it could be that the girl was in the wrong.
We aren't always completely fair when we haven't known someone long.
But whatever the provocation, to thus put out youth's fire
'Twould seem its repurcussions have really been most dire.

The cause, I fear, was "Romance" – a disease afflicting all,
And many of us, old and young, we at its visage pall.
But I suppose it has its uses, since it's lasted for so long
And it helps in part to propagate this race to which we belong.

In conclusion, let us now return to the scene we erstwhile left,
To the story of the young man who of his dream has been bereft.
But has he?
His studies have not picked up (but through laziness not from 'love')
And he's got himself a steady now – that young lady discussed above.

Elections

The would bes went and were the centre of the stage.
The show revolved around them, by them were we engaged.
Banners grew on pillars, computer print-outs crammed the walls.
All shared a common message—"Vote ME at the coming polls!"
Their speeches were as different as different could be:
Some were sombre and refined while others overflowed with glee.
Some of them were eloquent, others simply yelled.
It seems for some that halfway through enthusiasm quelled.
Most of them made speeches designed to please our ears
But many had the tendency of boring us to tears.
The good ones answered questions to outbursts of applause.
The rest were less articulate, they could have saved their jaws.
Of eighty-three contenders, less than half will make the grade
And then,
       Henceforth,
              For the next two years,
                     We'll see
                            From what
                                   They're made.

Melancholia (unfinished)

Time waits for none, and none has time for aught.
     A drear cortège of days the seasons fly,
     And why do we live these deadly lives?

But husks of being, in search of we know not what.
     In sensual pleasures indulge the flesh's whim—
     Interim satisfaction, though the yearning soul recoils.

"42"

I set myself to write a poem
          But lacked a subject.
I sought inspiration
          Asked a friend,
               "What shall I write?"
                    The reply came "Life".
I floundered.
The immensity of such a topic!
          Questioning further: "Happiness".

"Walk with your face towards the sun,
     Your shadow will fall behind you." A quotation,
I forget from where and yet
          The meaning is clear.

I tried to dream up lofty words
          But had not a thing to say.
Confronted by infinity,
     I rub my eyes and stare.

The horizon looms ever in sight
               Yet untouchable.
                    There, and yet ... not.
          Visible but intangible.
     Clearly cloudy.
Murky.

"A drop in the ocean of eternity."
     A familiar resonance.
     Music sent by the Muse,
          Forgetfulness beckons.
We succumb.

For Amy: On Dreams

Once on a time, so the story goes,
this guy meets this girl that he doesn't know
so he makes her acquaintance, they get along fine.
Each shares more with the other with the passing of time.

Then one day the fellow finds out he must fly,
to England no less – he lets out a sigh.
He looks back with longing at the carefree past months
and hopes the future holds joy such as he enjoyed once.

And so he departs, they both go their ways.
An occasional letter, but still memory fades,
the memory of golden days, lost to the past,
forgotten by two youths who grew up at last.

And once upon a time, and so the story goes,
and a guy and a girl, and on the story goes.
And more memories fade into dreams, till at last
another present lies fettered by the future in the past.

Holding Patterns (or 'Plane Blues)

Sitting on air watching clouds go by
dazzling white in a pale blue sky
waiting and wishing that I could be
               down on the ground (x3)
with my family

A cat may look at a king they say
and whenever, whyever and in whatever way
So why am I here going round and round
               while the king (x3)
watches matching bands
down on the ground

Look at the people packed in two by two
the small canned sardine and the bigger fish too
look at the people all bored out of their mind
because a tin god feels like wasting all our time

Sitting on air watching clouds go by
dazzling white in a pale blue sky
waiting and wishing that I could be
               down on the ground (x3)
with my family

‘And the Kingdom Is Of Such As These’

Ah! To be a child again – to be innocent once more.
And that I were spared the pain and doubts that do so bore
and burrow wormlike through my heart and cut me to the core.

That I could lose this fearful pall that threatens to devour.
Freedom yet calls out my name and but for a short time more
she'll wait below and do her best to save me from my tower.

For I've built myself a turret high and gaze down on the world,
looking out o'er fields and towns – a universe unfurled
of peacefulness and quietude, a heavenly realm unsoiled

by all these cares and troubled thoughts I've built up on this base:
a founding stone of intellect, pride that would displace
the work of the great Architect, and the working of his grace.

March 26th, 1989: Easter Sunday

It's a long lonely Saturday, thinking of you
     and I'm longing to know where you are.
Memories run through my head
     as I lie here alone
          and I wish you were here by my side.

Tommorrow is Easter Day, how should I feel?
     Awe-filled or carefree or down.
That most important event
     seems so far away
          more distant even than you.

What are you thinking of where you are now?
     It's your birthday tomorrow I know.
It's a strange thing to juxtapose
     his death with your birth.
          Will you hear if he calls out to you?

I question the reasons but still I'll go on
     believing that reasons exist.
Although I wish that I knew them
     would they help me at all… ?
          God knows.

Happy birthday.

Day Dreaming

I guess I'm only dreaming
least that's how it appears
     I doubt this could be for real
but even so I'm hoping
I'll overcome my fears
     and get to know her – for real

how do I describe her ?
should I even try ?
     leaning there against the wall
how should I approach her ?
dare I even try ?
     and does she notice me at all ?

she glances briefly at me
I quickly look away
     what's going on inside her head ?
is she still looking at me ?
I turn to look her way
     end up staring at my feet instead

help ! she just said something
what am I to do ?
     she wasn't speaking to me
but it gets me thinking
what am I to do
     if she ever does talk to me ?

she really is a vision
in those old faded jeans
     over there among her friends
oh, she is a vision !
the lady of my dreams
     will I meet her before it ends ?

(unfinished)

A wooden chair. You know the type:
   Ergonomically shaped bum rest and back like the drones of a bagpipe
or some crazy arched five legged wicket.

A kitchen chair, but in the living room.
   I'm sitting astride it; there we are, the chair and I, and opposite us,
pushed up against the wall, a sofa slouches.

Plain, drab,
   there's really nothing much else you can say about it except to note at one end
   supported by her forearm a girl reclining.

A conversation is in progress
   …