A poem about Christmas by David Tombale: The Game

Christmas means different things to different people The Game is just one of those stories.

The game

The sparklers burst and leave a
flood of lights to burn behind
my heavy eyes as I peek inside,
tear wrapping off of boxes to the
delighted squeals of naked fiends.
I grab a waist and drag him to me,
place a cotton sweater over heated
skin with the windows glaring open
as dust outside lifts from around the
rim to add to angels balanced on a
twig.

He puts his hands on either
cheek and gazing at his missing
teeth I’m reminded of this game;
toss him high then let him down
while the carols quietly sing his
name.

 

A poem about love and loss by David Tombale: For your arms

For your arms is written to express feelings of loneliness and abandonment that follow most of us, at one point or another in our lives.
Photo Credit: Olga Ferrer Saladié via Compfight cc

For your arms      

Darker are my days without you,

 eating noodles by my window

 watching traffic lights for sport-

 I swear I’m thankful,

 the blissful shriek of horns

 fill up the hours to make them

 whole.

 Writing diaries about November 4th.;

 it was a Tuesday and there was

 this shade of yellow spread out

 across the sky, egg yolks mixing

 in with white, now I breathe

 easily and let the carbon fumes

 exhale into the dark, the silence,

 the walls are shrinking in,

 the closets growing taller where

 they stand, filled with your old

 clothing and a yearning for your

 arms.

 

A poem about nostalgia and love by David Tombale: Missing home

There are many reasons to love someone, each personal and unique but they are all the only reason some of us ever need. Missing home is just a reminder of that.

Missing home 

There were more Closed signs than

Open, more reminders than smiling

storekeepers to ease my heart.

My neighborhood fell brick by brick

but I never cried.

The names of my friends poured like

paint in rain, clogging gutters with

dreams of large households that would

never be-

it is these thoughts that kept me

prisoner, rubbed the granules of dirt

around my eyeballs but your cool

lips have met my skin, your long fingers

have gripped my weakness,

they have molded clay,

creating spires out of lumps,

building houses from the earth,

and I have not missed here

ever since.