Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I still have to fight
the monsters inside your head;
sleep soundly tonight.
Don't fall in too deep
I always tell my self
not to fall in too deep. For you
the world is an open pit where
Love is but a word used loosely
I've always tried to tread lightly.
I've memorised maps and terrains.
I know, however, it is inevitable
not to fall. For you
look down at me from a bridge
made out of cobwebs of the past
and promises of the future.
I look up to where you are
and imagine being there.
Not falling too deep.
I want to reach you.
Inch my way to reach you.
We can go to places. Pass time. Be safe. Or
talk to you about jumping.
Leave the world in awe.
Jump with me.
To this crevice.
Fall with me. Fall with me
*completely.
I like your hair
resting on your shoulders
like the weight of the world is absent,
and when the gentle breeze blows,
it simply moves in its direction.
I like how messy it is--
there is some kind of order in it,
and in this world where solitude
is a friend or a foe,
you give order and colour,
just like your hair.

I envy the boy who  first
brush your hair from your face
as you give in to love's first kiss,
or the gentleman who will see you comb it
after a midnight bath, from his bedside.
Or he, most of all, who will witness it turn to gray.

I'll always dream of you, and
your hair swaying by the breeze.
Thank you, for at least, this vivid imagery
is forever mine to keep.
Every hotel room
makes me remember you,  dear,
lonely paramour.
Hotel Tropical, Ermita, Manila
I so long to read
your words are a glimpse inside
your labyrinth mind.
Let me read your mind.
Every long and lonely day
She is seen in her greyness
And beautiful honesty
For she has no wit to lie
Her age and her nervousness
Make her obviously vulnerable
As she worries in her doorway
And so it goes

A stranger approaches
He looks safe enough
Yes, safe enough
She asks the usual question
"Can you tell me what day it is, please?"
Surprised amusement in his eyes
"It's Saturday, love"
"Saturday. Thank you very much"
And so it follows

Saturday
I know that
I only ask for something to say
I'd have no-one to talk to if I didn't
Saturday
I know that
No-one came again today
Oh they must think I'm such a fool
Asking what day it is
But they can see I'm old
Saturday
Yes, I'm old
I can't remember how old
Too old, too old
Oh dear, what day did he say it was?
Was it Saturday?
Yes, that's right
Saturday
No-one came again today
No-one ever comes
I'll die alone and no-one will know
I could lie dead for days
No-one will know for days
Days and days
The days go so slowly
Or is it quickly
I wonder what day it is
Oh dear, I've forgotten again
I'll have to ask someone
They'll think I'm such a fool
Still, they can see I'm very old
"Excuse me, can you tell me what day it is, please?"

                                         By Phil Roberts
This poem was inspired by an old lady who lived close by. She asked what day it was every time someone went past.
Next page