A poem about loss by David Tombale: Born of Whirlwinds

In memory of a friend.
Born of Whirlwinds

 I found that the wind still speaks
Of him whirling through the corridors
Flipping through pages of a photo
Album, little laughing child in diapers
You grew into a rumbling, raging teen
And then into a man. I found that
The wind still speaks of him, that
The spaces mention him with humour,
That crazy kid, loving and leaving
But always leaving, finding joy in
Casual promises but no one blamed him,
Scion born of whirlwinds and blinding
Storms and rarely but every so often a
Warm summer breeze. I find I miss
You now and then when a quiet moment
Catches me unawares, but I hope that
You're resting easily in the bosom of
The earth knowing still that we speak
Fondly of you on the anniversary of
Your birth.

A poem about travelling by David Tombale: Moving past

When I was nineteen I finally left home to attend college in Malaysia. Looking my fear about trying to adapt to my new environment, not to mention dealing with culture. I put all of that and more into this piece and I hope what's in it will ring true with a lot people.
Moving past

The miles run inland past the sea,
they lead me slowly like a riverboat
laying up against the shore

Oh sight of home recedes leaving taste
of salt and tears to settle in my lungs
but I breathe deeply

Oh scent of air, perfume of laundry soap
and sound of chatter, catcalls and the
yellow of taxi signs, a nest of starlings
that burst with movement and the
crinkle of green and red

My mother’s name surrenders
itself into this tongue,
Abang, he tells me I’ve called him uncle

This is not my home but as shoulders spin
me and I’m dragged along I see a
city pierce the jungle green,
I feel the rain upon my cheeks and
the touch of fingers that grip my hand
to join the clamor of strangers moving past. 

A poem about nature by David Tombale: Cricket sounds

Cricket sounds is just about letting a stream of ideas just flow while using nature as my muse.
Cricket sounds

There is a hidden catch inside
the heart of every willow tree

a little cave where swallows go
and squirrels dream of elephants
they’ll never be

Sleeping happily beneath the roots that
rise above me and cradle my creaking bones
I breathe the beauty of cricket sounds
while keeping watch for fox and hounds
and things I thought I’d sometimes seen
but the night resounds and I’m a child
of every cloud. 

A poem about solitude by David Tombale: Counting the hours

There comes a time even after moving on, in that break between losing a past lover and finding a new one when certain thoughts become really loud and there's no one around to stop them. That's really all that this piece is, a story of solitude.
Counting the hours

 Dear Lori

There were no tears left to cry,
no songs

Somewhere a moment passed
and disappeared “so long”

In careful study just her and I
young and grasping,
laughing and raging
like a wildfire,
like summer storms

But in tears and agony
even our love was gone

First I then she,
with him,
with her
until these walls could hold no more
but I remain still missing her
counting sorrow with the evening hours
when the spotlight dims and
I’m alone.

A poem about art and love by David Tombale: When we were art

The explanation for this piece is in the title, it comes across the topic of love, loss and art. It presents itself as a narrative of a failed love affair between an artist and his muse.
When we were art

She and I like a lilting song
in a smoky room,
like grand echoes beneath a
cathedral dome,
the scent of coffee and sweet perfume
breathing Parisian air while painting portraits
of the graceful turn of her lovely leg,
cashews and roaring chefs,
there were hurricanes and laughter,
tearing lingerie with tip of pen performing
minuets that tore a tear from my lover’s eye

we were the warmth of light,
the mystery of winter nights,
we were art and the fall of kingdoms,
we were forever
now all my forevers have come and
gone.

A poem about longing by David Tombale: In sight of heaven

Life plays tricks on people in that it can forge a connection between two persons who can never be together. Whether it's because she's with someone or he's with someone, the timing just fails to work out for them and that is what this piece is about.
In sight of heaven

I felt the aching, burning sensation
of love take flight someplace where
she resides

First turning then kissing
and I their witness but
I imagine her and she looks at me with
that knowing smile beneath shade and night
and auburn curls that pull the heart from me,
that lead me breathlessly
down the stairs and I am running,
trying to catch a glimpse, a touch,
a sign from heaven that turns this
empty crush into a world unknowing
in sight of heaven and our stars.

A poem about a passing love by David Tombale: Like a dove

Sometimes love and relationships can be sweet and fleeting and this poem tries to describes just such a story.
Like a dove

My heart is missing this
a quiet whisper and a kiss
a gentle mingling of warmth
and subtle text,
an interchange of sifted words that
sometimes coincide and sound so strange,
“like missing you” and “holding you”
and “when I loved you”

And I find in this aftermath
a forgotten moment when it’s
your heart I hold so carefully
until it flies upon the gusting
winds in fall of feathers like a
dove.

A poem about conflict by David Tombale: Midnight revelry

Every so often a relationship there will be anger and fighting, the kind of conflicts that aren't easily resolved. Midnight revelry is a piece about some of the chaos and spiraling emotions that can threaten even the most perfect couples.
Midnight revelry

River run wild with silent tears
the demon that rests upon our
mantel will not shelter you,
he will not take his time to warm
your hands before the burning
blaze

He will not answer you,
the darkness will not let him
call-

the telephone resting in shattered
pieces by the door as the new look
cupboard rests against the wall

The awful green of curtains closed
to hide our shame from the leaking
white of moonlight that lays its hands
upon your scowling brow and I
trapping clothes and catching cold as
the door gapes wide and the gliding owls
announce a stranger’s footfall outside
an empty house.