A poem about lost love by David Tombale: Smoke

Written for the prompt Smoke.

Smoke

And then we were like smoke,
like forest fires, like tears within
the rain, we were beautiful like
reflections of the moon within
a pool, we were like perfection,
like the sounds of jazz on a lazy
Sunday afternoon.

We were smoke and flame
and some days I wish you’d come again,
I wish you’d happen by to see me,
knock on Number 24 and smile like
it was accidental, like the winds
had deigned to carry you to where
I am, but the sight of smoke is
lifting, dissipating into air and
my heart can’t take much more
so I won’t open up this door. 

A poem about life and hope by David Tombale: Live

Live is about celebrating life through the simplest acts.

Image credit- eelx

Live

Live out your dreams in stolen moments

beneath the evergreens and let free the

music that soars in you, that screams,

the drumbeat of dancing feet, baby girl

I’m watching you and all night you dance,

dance for Marvin, baby dance for me,

make these hours count, make this little

house bounce, make the cobwebs tear,

make that radio our stair, we wind and

dance our way into a better life or stay

dreaming while our skin throbs,

while your hair falls in drops of sweat,

live out your dreams and make my

mama stare, make her love the way

you tear up this room.

 

 

 

 

 

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.