Abandon

Abandon hope, they cried,
and yet my heart asked why?
Why should, or could, or
would we ever abandon hope

when it remains the door we
open, to usher in the light,
to allow bright streams of
sunshine to wander in through

shadows, to warm the soul in
places dark and fearsome; to
allow us to stand and walk
outside, away from the place

where we have hidden, and
huddled against hope, denied
the truth that wherever we
might be; whatever we might

feel, or hear, or sense, or even
know, that there is always
hope, waiting; eyes shining,
arms open wide, spirit still

laughing in the face of grief,
our comforter and solace...
which cannot be abandoned,
even as we think it might.

http://margoroby.com/2016/01/12/poem-tryouts-abandon-ye/

Scent

The sense of it enticing,
full measure of delight,
the scents of it inviting;
perfumed dance requites.

In aromatic envelope,
your body lingers still,
drifts of distant memory;
grief can never quell.

In fabric folded gift,
clothes no longer worn,
you stay with me eternal;
lost life forever torn.

The sense of it enticing,
full measure of delight,
the scents of it inviting;
perfumed dance denied.

http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/05/scents-that-linger/

Fear

Fear does roam in circle,
granite hard in veins,
calls the ghost of reason,
names the nightmares

reared, on the weight
of sorrows, howl of
deepest grief, packs
the flesh of madness

wrapped in sore relief.
Holding to the table,
empty dreams of hope,
reason drinks in silence,

draughts of time remote.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/11/24/poetry-as-a-vehicle-to-transport-emotions/

Missing you

There is a hole in the world where you once were,

a gap of such dimensions it cannot ever be missed,

and yawns in cavernous gaping, like some shocking

smile, smashed open, holding to eternal edges, where

 

my heart hovers by the threatening boundaries of

the abyss, and my mind huddles to one side, every

now and again, peeping into that darkness, as if in

an unexpected moment, I could see you there again;

 

as if I could find your shape deep inside that chasm,

and then, pull it back into place, haul it from the lair,

where it had been hiding, lost to sight, disappeared

into that bunker of time, that grotto of grief which had

 

claimed it, and broken the world I had known asunder,

wrought that fathomless depth with its wounded mouth,

destined to remain open, silent, mocking, keening in

a voice which echoed through memory, and which spoke

 

always of what once was and might never be again,

now that you were lost on the other side of that hole

in the world I once knew, where only your desire could

see you clamber back through, and close it up again.

Hands

So soft, those hands, held
velvet through lack of use,
crippled, racked with pain,
wrinkled in sad sighing,

held loosely to stop the
hurting, incapable of taking
hold, or hanging on, helpless
as they have made you, or

perhaps as you needed to be,
with a disease to which you
could only surrender, against
which there was no resistance,

no attempt to take a grip, or
to handle it in constructive
ways, but then, 'taking a grip'
you were sure, was what led

to madness, to those places
where you had been for so
long, that they held you in
their grip, even once you had

been released; and so, you sat,
hands folded loosely in surrendered
lap, languishing always,
in sullen, rheumatic depths.

http://margoroby.com/2015/11/10/tuesday-tryouts-the-modes/#comments

Fear

When fear sucks in hope,
holds its breath and refuses
release, and the world seems
to shrink into itself, denying

possibility, promising pain
and gritting brittle teeth,
in the face of optimism;
then do I wait for angels

to whisper thoughts of
comfort, which can prod
open lips of despair;
allowing bright exhale.

Leaving

The jacarandas are in flower
as the blossoms fall purple,
small deaths, sighing at
the side of open suitcases,

coming to rest in the dust of
gathering memories, waiting
to be packed along with the
myriad possessions; dregs

of life and tree, scattered in
that song of inevitable ending,
where what was, can be no
more and what is, calls, in

soulful whisper, reminding
all is impermanent, nothing
lasts, or can endure, beyond
its allotted time and for the

expatriate, there will always
be a moment to go home, just
as the tree sheds its beauty,
making way for something

new, and for that which is
destined to come after -
fated to the turn of the wheel
of life, the eternal cycle,

slowly spinning in silence,
unseen, revolutions of days
and minutes, dropping into
the past, as the now rises

in gentle roll, to the top of
consciousness, holding for
a brief reality, impressed
as template of our being;

so we begin and move to
our created end, which
has always been written
even if we did not know it.