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 unrequited love by David Tombale: Heartbeat

This is another poem about unrequited love.

Heartbeat

There is a rhythm to her heartbeat,

a melody that makes a whisper in my ear

that resounds like echoes across the wide

blue yonder of our love, and I exist in

the spaces that other faces have hollowed out

and they I think might have loved her too,

once in silence and once in rage but nothing’s

left but pain.

I wish she’d write me,

I wish she’d live inside my heart

like thoughts I leave unspoken so

someday I’d leave them out to

run around the yard like our children,

with my eyes and her lovely smile,

I see them often, but have nothing to

content myself with this lonely night.

A poem about contemplation on a Monday morning by David Tombale: Above the clouds

Above the clouds is about that Monday mood when you’re still in your covers and random thoughts pass through your mind.

Above the clouds

There is a shallow cough that builds

beneath the breast, almost like the

spirit yearns to be rid of this tender

flesh and I am waking, dreaming only

of the summer when the sun sits

high above the clouds and does nothing

more than glare. 

A poem about love and longing by David Tombale: Across our window

Sometimes there is a certain tone to the way we remember people from our pasts, with a type of longing and that’s what this poem is about.

Across our window

There is a hollow ring to the way she speaks

my name, not like you, not like you did in

the last moments before the light bulb dimmed

and we were only silhouettes entwining,

one form into another against the white glow of

moonlight across our window. 

A poem about loss and love by David Tombale: At night

For everyone there is that one person who shakes our equilibrium, who we think too far to touch and this is for all of that.

 

 

At night

 

At night I pull your shirt from out of

 the cupboard so I can hold it tightly

 in my trembling arms before the moon

 sinks down to kiss my head,

 only she knows that tonight I’m thinking of you,

 rubbing strands of light blond hair between my fingers

 as the pillows whisper sweet forgetting,

 they beg me to sink within them into a world of

 white so deep it will swallow me,

 I wish I could but I know I shall never find you

 there.

 

 You are soaring through the sky on the wings

 of angels while the darkness pours beneath my

 bedroom door shoving light before it angrily,

 see that way he shows me that within these caves

 it’s the sun that promises devastation,

 for a frog must look upon the sky with wonder

 and never dream to touch a star.

 

 

A poem about the weekend by David Tombale: Let me show you

The weekend tends to be something that most people enjoy, some for rest and relaxation and some for fun and for others it’s a chance to be with the people we love.

Let me show you

The weekend lights upon us out

of the dark like a burning bush,

striking a pin into the soft flesh

of factory worker and office worker

alike, and me.

Can you see us running for overcrowded

buses like lemmings flinging our small

bodies over the lip of a cliff?

Somehow this weekend will find me

waiting for you, flowers in hand watching

the cold night creeping in and the old lady

who often watches from the window above

draws her shawl tight around her neck.

There is a new groove playing from

a nearby jukebox and tonight I know

you’ll want to dance, forget your troubles,

forget Mathematics and Science, toss

those books in a corner, take my hand,

babe I’m asking you please, take my

hand and let me show you the night.

A poem about capitalism by David Tombale: I used to be a poet

A piece I wrote about capitalism when I was younger when I was still wondering what it means to be an artist. Money perhaps is too often a motivation for great endeavors but only as individuals can we choose if that's all that matters to us.
I used to be a poet

I used to be a poet, the thoughts
Escaped from where they'd gone again,
I used to be a poet when I was younger,
But now, with words stirring but
Hardly rising, angels with broken wings,
Now I cannot raise my head, a burden
Laid across my back, I used to be,
But I think too much on a distant
Past, I used to be, and now I'm not,
And it's not something that I find
I deeply regret, I think on it with
Some relief, I used to love my words,
The images that were painted with black
Ink, now I am a capitalist, I dream
Only of material things, dollar bills,
And traffic signs blurring as I pass,
I live my life a quarter of a mile at
At a time, and in my head I can hear
Dean quietly advise, I live fast, die
Young, and leave as that time comes,
A good looking corpse.

A poem about being a man by David Tombale: Something of Man

I think I've grown a little tired of apologizing for the stupidities of some men, so apologize for myself because I'm the only one who can.
Something of Man

I have placed no thoughts inside a box
to pray for sight of Man, what we
were and could be condemned to ride
the yellow light of cabs while women
haunt the sidelines sitting back counting
the revolving Johns and Smiths who
sometimes try to be but are not enough

As you search for happiness I know I’ll
stay without, half despairing lost inside
a bottle, smoking cigarettes by the carton

My sisters place their hands on their brother
but nothing bruises concrete, a mausoleum
filled with white carnations, decaying letters
and promises that spit into the eye like
camels, we that’s left commiserate about
friends we lost to drink and hate and women
we tried to love and lost to our own ways.

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 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.