A poem about friendship by David Tombale: Promises

Promises is a piece I wrote that reviews my relationship with the friends I've made over the years. In the end it might across as regret for the way time has shaped how some of these relationships evolved.

Promises

I have loved these things in moderation

from early days to withered age as if the

seasons had told me all, of the passing glory

of those summer days, of baking heat and

violent joy, of yellows, greens and purples

that inset themselves behind these eyes

like the curves around a fallen oak

There are screaming trucks that scare the birds and

whooping cries from pre pubescent lungs coated

gray and black by the cherry red of these after

meal cigarettes

It all looks so new to me flipping through

pictures of us in these Instagrams,

too much pollen and beer cans crushed by us and

in the wake of it, in the midst, sitting somewhere

behind us she waves, a vivid figure there to remind us

that some promises do fade.

A poem about passionate love by David Tombale: Love reminds me

The title says it all, at times when your heart carries all your wisdom and your mind takes a backseat love becomes your compass. This is meant for those instances and people we can't help but keep a torch for, forever after.
Love reminds me

 Love reminds me of you in every hour
in every way, from the whispered chirps
above the trees to the way I’d hold you
carefully, as if fearing you would break

Jigsaw pieces thrown here and there
awaiting these nimble hands to show
the way

Love reminds me like summer days
out in the pools throwing waterfalls
to the sounds of laughter,
even autumn when the leaves begin to
change and there is a beauty in your ways,
fur lined boots and tiny waist and the
coldness of your kiss

Love reminds me of you every once
in awhile, it clouds over the angry moments
and was it you or was it me, who did it and
who did what, I can’t remember anything
past this burning ache that’s memory,
that’s lingerie and passion, tumbling around
our bed like animals

Love reminds me of this little green dress and
my hands on your  legs, it reminds me that I’ve
been holding my breath and that I still can’t breathe
without you.
 

A poem about life by David Tombale: Saturday

Everybody has a favorite day and their own reasons for picking it. My favorite day is Saturday, when there is nothing to do and it seems like you have all the time in the world. This piece is about those Saturdays and the entirety of what that day has come to mean to me and maybe to a lot of other people.
Saturday

There are enough stories to tell on Saturday night
with the sky looking black and these tears in my eyes,
a cold beer sitting moistly beneath my radio as I
take my mind off streetlights shining warmly on
the highway

Some days I feel like traveling, leaving
pavements and screaming cars behind me on a
silent trek deep into the wilderness and some day
to disappear but on Saturday nothing’s wrong,
the cold coal stoked and laughter’s there

We’re not friends the way we were,
some married, some broke but on Saturday nothing
feels the same and the way we talk is changing,
from lies we tell about girls we love and jobs we often hate,
we change everything to chatter about football games and
tv screens,  old flames and a few better days

On these Saturdays old is young again and there
is a quiet promise upon the wind, so if you’re leaving
take your keys and I will wait for you again someday when
another Saturday comes around. 

A poem about dreams by David Tombale: Upon the road

There is a value in dreaming. It raises is us out of the monotony of our ordinary lives and offers a glimpse into something better but sometimes our dreams we fail to achieve our dreams and are left with nothing more than the memory of them. This poem is about those times.
Upon the road

The dreams that spin their gold beyond
these halls are faint, they do not often
leave their mark upon these people

Here the shadows pay them constant
call, dirty the heavy linens, retreat from
hacking coughs, there is a line embedded
in my skin, a testament to my weary
days and beside my bed lies another traveler
on this long paved road to nowhere,
he tells me he always wanted to be a singer
but the blood that twists the expression
on his face has bloodied the purple of his
lips

There are no dreams here only this
heaviness of body like the soul is struggling
to be rid of us, to be rid of here and when the
surgeon raises his gleaming scalpel in my head
I pray he’ll cut my cord to let me go.

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 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.