A poem about loneliness by David Tombale: On the dock

Loneliness comes in all kinds of forms and is caused by any number of reasons but regardless of the background behind it the feeling always remains the same.

On the dock

There is no beauty in this surfeit
of emotion, no destiny in the cold
abandon of lonely shore,
my arms crossing into signs that
might someday form their own language,
a thumb and index finger brought
together joined into a partial wave that
reminds me of a ferry passing out of dock,
its wind tugging at the collars of my jacket,
flinging my tears out behind me where
you won’t see them,
suffice to say I think I’ll miss you.

 

A poem about a kind of love by David Tombale: Threading the needle

Threading the needle is a bit complex. I had to describe it as kind of love poem because in some ways the relationship it narrates is slightly like love but taken altogether what it emerges is something far less romantic.
Threading the needle

I thread the needle through my eye as
I look for her inside the seething dark,
The crying skies look beautiful in the
Background of our lives when I’m holding her,
Teasing nipples through her brassiere,
Tasting salt and sweat and odd regrets.
She won’t let me kiss her lips, her lust
Almost haunting, slightly sad,
Her legs, her hips, I spread them wide and
Lose my mind, yet that absence,
That invisible that makes me sick,
Chest inhales and exhales, sweet breath
Still tickles these tiny hairs, now quickly over,
Now she’s looking at me hand laid out,
The paper falls, my money gone
And once more I sleep alone.
 

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.