A nostalgic poem about friendship by David Tombale: It's Always Nice to Dream

Some friendships are like a joining of spirits, a meld of personalities that seems preordained but when you're young that feeling can be nothing more than a sheer longing for brotherhood, for loyalty. Such friendships are burdened by need and are therefore merely temporary.


It’s Always Nice to Dream

 

There was a way with us, a

 careless motion that upended

 tables and brought us down but

 it wasn’t always like this, before

 torn jeans and paying rent,

 it wasn’t always like this, blue

 car or grey and stench of paint,

 brews on the dash board and stupid

 cops or perhaps it was simply in the

 memory, a twist that brings the

 lie out of something wise and old,

 a bond of us, when we six would

 sit around this table and the world

 would spin around us and we’d hurl

 our insults at the crowds, we were

 Gladiators and the Romans feared

 us but now I know it’s always nice

 to dream.

 

 

A contemplative poem about love by David Tombale: All Good Things

It is the nature of most romantics to have tried their hand at writing a love letter at least once in their loves. This is my attempt at a love letter.



All Good Things

 

I have tired of writing love poem after love poem

 to these winter leaves as the cold winds blow

 around me numbing hands as I sweep yours

 beneath my own to warm them, as I’ve desired

 to lift that chill that hardens your lovely eyes,

 they darken and now I know I’d made you mad-

 

that memory spilling from my pen as I sit before

 this dark oak desk and drink all in, the odd

 surprises of images and scents I’d thought forgotten,

 this letter somehow started sad but now it opens to

 reveal its whiteness, its summoned glow of silence

 and compassion and I think I loved you best in

 the cracks and pieces that remained, I loved you

 best when I have known that our love is dewdrops

 upon the leaves, now the sun has come and all good

 things must have their way and go.

 

 

 

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A poem about angst by David Tombale: Where is my dad?

This poem is another contemplative piece that addresses issues I faced during a particularly difficult high school period. I hope those who have faced a similar struggle with their inner mind will relate.


Where is my dad?

I am afraid,

I told my subconscious as we fought.

Come now there's this thing,

unformed,

this need,

I am afraid,

 I declared my fear to a room of strangers

 or so I thought

but no sound escaped my lips,

no breath went past these lungs and formed the words,

amid the silent tombs of my mind's halls

I fought a war against myself.

Come now there's this thing,

 this need,

you know this thing,

you've seen it's soul.

I am afraid

so I sat against the wall

my eyes drifting towards the door;

 

David!

David!

I am afraid,

he paused mid blow,

he paused,

his eyes were wide and shocked,

you would persist?

You would retreat?!

 David!

Can't you hear me call?

My eyes on hers,

I watched her gush like she had before,

before now,

before then,

 it's standard form,

my eyes drifting towards the door;

 

Brother it isn't far to fall,

come let us be gone,

unheeded tears formed inside my eyes,

I am afraid,

and I wish they'd understand,

I wish I'd tell it so it wouldn't kill me to keep it in,

I am afraid,

and where is my dad to hold my hand?

Self conscious,

a man in need of help,

disgraceful

but still I miss the comfort of his strength,

I miss that voice that always said in response

to falling tears, "come now it will be all right."

 

A poem about heartbreak by David Tombale: My Radio

This poem was inspired by one of my favorite songs of all time, Ne-yo's So Sick from his first album. I think the message in it was one which a lot of us saw something of ourselves in and it finally motivated me to try my hand at writing it's poetic equivalent.
My Radio

Too many times and too many words

reveal the answers in my lies,

I swore I'd never hurt again until I

let you see how much I cared,

just another time when I failed to see

the actions in my thoughts-

the indifference that shattered

like a shell I hadn't known before,

that I hadn't known I wore,

 yet listen here, listen if you

think it's you I'm mourning for

you haven't known me long.

 There is another who scarred me long before,

new scars on old wounds only numb

what wasn't raw,

You can't hurt me child

Too many times and too many love songs

they don't sound like they did before,

my soul aching now I know I wasn't wrong

This flesh crawls, this mind bends

around the river bends and I don't

know what empty fields it's looking for,

some aloneness I know we crave.

 Listen here child there is nothing

you are breaking that isn't broken but

with you I thought I could forget

You said I love you,

said it sweetly but made me wonder

 far too often

Too much anger,

too much anger,

I love you,

Don't you mean I want you different?

Change for me?

Too many love songs,

I think I've heard it all so I stood up and

reached out to switch my radio off.

A poem about loss by David Tombale: Pitter Patter

This poem is a contemplative piece that explores parenthood and loss. It's inspired by experiences with those who have children and those who have lost them, some intentionally and some not.

Pitter patter

Pitter patter,

small feet on cold floors,
pitter patter,

I hear those feet in my house,
Pitter patter,

those small footfalls echo through my house,

pitter patter,

 a solid sound,
a reality to my tortured mind

but no it's only ghostly,

a fragment I remember,

a sound of laughter follows after pitter patter,

a wild and joyful laugh,

a childish laugh,

I hear it clearly,

as clear as pitter patter but it is not there,

it cannot be.

There are sheets over furniture

and dust on sheets

and still that pitter patter

and that childish laugh echo through this house.

I should not be hearing that pitter patter,

that carefree laugh cuz it has no source,

maybe once it could have been,

it should have been

but Death and God and relentless Fate took that pitter patter

and denied me that childish laugh;

In a house on the lake the doors are locked,

there are sheets on the leather chairs and plush soft sofas

and there is dust on those sheets,

ten year long dust

and in that house there is a nursery

and in that nursery there is a crib,
a plain square crib with angels drawn on its soft white sheets,

where the walls depict scenes of laughing kids,

in that house I sit alone and  listen to the sound of pitter patter

and joyful laughter,

sounds I should have known in reality
But Fate and God and Death took that all  from me.