A poem about contemplation and writing by David Tombale: The days

There are times when you intend on writing and yet nothing worthwhile comes out. Moments like that are what The days describe.

The days

There are days when the words will not

hear me out, when the dried out version

of my remembered youth will not fill

a page or ten, a book or a passage in my

Bible, the words fulfill me but the present

needs me so the clatter of my keyboard may

have to cease, may sit out silent beneath the

shade of a blacked out screen while the

white buzz of sound runs out.

I could not write a line that felt like my beating

heart beating out a memory of a summer’s day,

the heat and flight of birds in June,

there is no music, no hope or fury,

 I place my book bag by my dusty window where

the sun will see it, where the wind will blow

against its glass perhaps to wake the thoughts

that rest inside, the note pads full of scribbling,

the pens half filled with ink.  

A poem about art and love by David Tombale: The kiss of my muse

Some poets are inspired by the people in their lives and the void that grows once those people leave creates the kind of feelings and responses that I put in this poem.

The kiss of my muse

I have no words left,

the lingering kiss of my muse has faded

like the light of morning fades from my watching eyes,

as dusk grays the evening shade

and my love for you takes on the hue of winter,

all white snow and gray ice that hangs like daggers from my

windows.

I have no words left,

spring has yet to shatter the freezing

shutters that keep me trapped in a world

of ash and snow, love and ice.

I have prayed for many months for

some warm breeze to blow,

to thaw these waking thoughts into a steady stream

that might one day ink a landscape of a better

rhyme, perhaps a battle scene,

a ballad of a fallen soul

but tonight I’ll drink alone and wallow

while a single raven perches outside this hollow,

to cry its sorrow across this field of letters and

aging books, their pages curling daily,

too brittle to understand.

A poem about priceless love by David Tombale: Your song

Your song is about a love devoid of money or status. I wanted to write something that would perfectly describe that and this is what I came up with.

Your song

 

Deliver me a promise deep from the

 depths of you and let me inhale the

 musk on your neck, the crush of soft

 satin that falls from your back

 

 Tonight we lay down in silence,

 cut adrift from our words and living

 in statues and portraits, verses that

 lead me often to you

 

 To others the grand ballrooms,

 the gleam of jewels and strings of

 pearls but for me your love,

 your song.

 

A poem about regret by David Tombale: A girl in Sunderland

A girl in Sunderland reflects upon a relationship I had with a female poet. It touches upon the mistakes I made and the wasted hopes that arose after the relationship's end.
A girl in Sunderland

I met a girl in Sunderland who wrote me letters
And poems, it's a shame I didn't mean it, I didn't
Mean all those letters I answered back, promising
Marriage and all of that, I met a girl in Sunderland
So beautiful, so strong, she loved me, I look back
At it and know, I wish, I only wish I'd loved her more,
But I love her still! I cried but in truth I was alone,
Talking only to these mirrors as if they could hear
My woe, I kept her letters, and I reread them every
Saturday as I sat at my window watching as it
Rained, she loved me I know that now, that
Girl from Sunderland, I only wish, I wish I'd loved
Her more, maybe then I'd have her now, white
Picket fence, a small dog, maybe a little boy or
Girl but those are just memories and images,
Leaves upon the river, I sit there at its bank
And watch them float away and lay some of those
Letters I wrote but never sent beside them, like
Paper ships perhaps sailing to lands I'll never
See, and maybe one might find that girl and she'll
Think of me, think of us and perhaps come on home. 

A poem about art and love by David Tombale: My music

My music as a piece was about losing my need to write and how I found my reason again in loving someone. There's always something uplifting about putting your faith in someone and finding your talent reaffirmed.
My music

Riddle me this and
Riddle me that

There came a time when
Even my pen became a riddle
As deep as the meaning I
Failed to see in life

Cold mornings as I sat
Upon my balcony
Holding conversations
With the sun as yellow rain
Fell upon my thirsty skin and
I laughed about the sound of
Seagulls coming from the
Distance

So I am here now
Living by the beach

My music the crash of waves
Upon the rocks

I do not write these days
All my poetry reserved for
The portraits I paint upon
The sky

I do not write these days
Except for those soliloquies
I leave upon her skin

I fell in love with love
Lost myself in feeling until
The day I rose from our satin
And a symphony began inside
My mind

I've been trying to write it
Down these past three days
But the pages are running
Out

There is a symphony happening
Here and I'm just beginning
To learn to dance.

A poem about the nature of an artist's soul by David Tombale: Every season

This piece was written for contest that addressed how every work we produce is often a reflection of ourselves. That idea just gave birth to this poem that in a way describes the person I've always been and the hope I've always kept a secret.
Every season

I change with every season so
Every season is my own, a
Room of mirrors, a soul that
Shivers, shivers to the bone,
I paint a crazy picture of the
Landscape of my mind and as
I lean a little I see the people
Hidden in the back,

I change with every season so
Every season is my own, the
Hobbled man, the vagrant, dirty
Nails scratching at his skin, I
Feel sick so I sat beside the
Bar stool with a whiskey in
My hand and listened to the
Music of an old out of tune
Piano,

I change with every season so
Every season is my own, that
Is why I build my houses on
Shifting sand and keep my clothes
In a bag beside my bed, I want
To leave here but I don't know
Where to go, which is why she
Holds me all silent as I cry.

A poem about heartbreak by David Tombale: The last train

This sad love poem doesn't just address losing someone you love but also touches on travelling to escape a life you can no longer stand. It's not only about heartbreak, it's about and self.
The last train

My train is late again,
I hear its wheels rumbling gently on the rails
as it travels near to take me far away

I have to go you see,
there is nothing here that I’m living for
so I think I’ll ply my trade there out at sea,
lifting my sun burnt face to watch the stars
sparkling in the sky

I’ll tell the wind someday
of all the places I have been,
my sojourn amidst the catacombs in Paris,
my time spent sketching the skylines in New York
and when I’m done
perhaps I’ll find my way back to that place where I was born
but I have no hopes

I lost them on that last day in July,
the seasons turned and you were gone
now I’m going down these famous roads
trying to find some meaning in goodbye,
a riddle answered by my thoughts.

A sad life poem by David Tombale: Untitled

Untitled was written in that period between one breakup and long before the start of a new one when writing was my only solace and it hardly seemed adequate at the time. I think a lot of us can understand not being able to tolerate our own thoughts when we're alone.
Untitled

I cannot write for all the sounds
that boil inside me alas for my
final stand I raised a placard I’d
devised in my adolescence, an image
of her I’d carried like a charm against
the fury of these storms.

I measure peace and made a place
here for the way I’m feeling, a scarlet
wonder I have come to ponder, graceful
much like a careless child tracing faces
out of clouds that laugh to see that child’s
smile.

It is here that my art has failed me, here
where my heart is aching, catching sight
of something wonderful only to want to
stay here in the shadow of its warmth.
I am safe here, writing thoughts that curve
and bend, they sometimes mock me as
if our strength lies in my weakness and
my odd desire for the gentle crush of
thought and kiss.