And would that be it?
would that be how
it was with him?

And to think
it was as if
nothing was wrong

and that maybe
there would be
another day
to follow

and he'd
be there still
and rain would fall
and clear
and the sun
would come out
and shine
as it often did

and the people
on the ward
would be kinder
to each other
or not
as the case turned out

but I thought things
would be fine
and that he'd be
there all

sitting upright
and happy
and that I'd
bring him home

but it was not
that way at all
he sat there
kind of hunched over
catching his breath
puffed and bluey dark

and I asked
the questions
he said
and seemed so calm
and not uptight

as if it was
always like this
the hands and arms
the skin
the eyes looking
but not doing so

and looking back
there was lingering
unknown to us
over his shoulder maybe
pushing out
his breath
silently
that sinister
unseen
slippery death.

Sitting by the fire,
He raised a glass,
Whispering words,
Of his secret past,

A solitary tear,
Wiped slowly away,
Hiding the pain,
Of that fateful day,

As a curious child,
I always wondered why,
My heroic father,
Would sit and cry,

Or wake up screaming,
Soaked in his bed,
Telling my mother,
The noise in his head,

As I grew old,
I understood why,
My soldier father,
Would sit and cry,

He lost his family,
Not linked by blood,
He witnessed things,
That no human should,

Affected by the war,
Still to this day,
His PTSD,
Is stuck on replay.

What will I do when I run out of words to express my love for you?

Will I be consumed by my sorrow if it has nowhere to go?
Will my heart stop whispering your name
Will I stop imagining your weight in place of others
Will my torment end

Will other lovers haunt my dreams
Will I give myself freely to them
Will I love unbound and bright as fire
Will my heart sing of joy

Or will I disappear
curling like black smoke into the ether
silent ruin my comfort
cold longing my grave.

While you, my sweetest muse
my beautiful love
go on, unaware, unmoved
by the diminishing of my light.

I tried to write a poem
one that wasn't about you
it's more difficult than I thought
you're like a permanent tattoo

I didn't want to include love
and the way you make me feel
or how my heart is pulled
by the words you make so real

Each and every one of them
touches a place so very deep
piercing the depths of me
even while I'm asleep

A poem without mention
of the lust I feel for you
penetrating my body
just at the thought of 'us two'

I failed at writing a poem
one that wasn't about you
never to rid you from my mind
you have all of me *consumed

Hello.
I'll not bother with the trivialities.
I'll forgo the lingering, longing stares
nix the stuttered words and long-departed trains of thought
skip the goofy, giddy smiles and tangential conversations
and I'll never utter the words,
"I think you're truly beautiful"
because you are,
and because you are
you've heard it all before.

The key to the lock
to the door to the room
with the chest that encases
your heart

is buried just off
the Nā Pali Coast
in the sands of the
Pacific.

When minds start warring
Reason loses its way
Chaos prevails*






© Amitav (Radiance)

I am writing this as
I stand -beer in hand- watching
Neil Gaiman being

Interviewed on stage in
Oslo. He has more to say
Than many, to poets

And those living lives; others.
"Writing is like composting.  
You have an idea. You

Leave it to rot... and
Things will grow
From it."

Where-
and the place
too familiar,

passageways,
dark, the bed
at the end

of the ward,
and you,
you there,

at the side,
bent over,
Stoic until the end.

Where in the realm of things
does sense
come of this?

I, how to see
sense in this?
The unfolding drama,

the end game,
the drawn out decider.
You-

how soon would
it have come,
my son?

Did you?
And how much?
Was it your hand

on my shoulder
months later
at the Carthusian mass?

The long passage way,
drawn out in dreams
to the same conclusion,

the same end:
What will be the comfort;
who will mend?

Hi there,
I say to the ocean,
dropping my shoes
for the sandy pilgrimage
to shore,

A lone figure wanders
into a Delft seascape,
Blues and whites
of Dutch perfection engulf
my field of vision,
Water and sky reflecting
back infinite shades,

the blue of stiff dungarees
at the horizon,
clouds in shaving cream white,
the heron blue gray of the shallows,
I could name twenty shades
on a good day, like today
when the beach is all mine,

I step into the cool ooze,
jolted into a sudden jig,
I hop, a riot of ah's and elbows,
Waves rush at me
like a legion of puppies,
frothy and excited,
I laugh at their sloppy greeting,
Overwhelmed by their welcome,
unconditional and salty,
Spray lapping my face
as I find my footing.