Four into eight - the Silva grail

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Below is the poem entitled Four into eight - the Silva grail which was written by poet Anson Decker. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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A middle aged man, having lived four of an expected eight decades, confronts his emotional death and the inability to feel or experience life as he once did as a younger man.  A mysterious,  beautiful woman helps him rediscover the potential of life. 


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Four into eight - the Silva grail

Four of eight decades rest in the past
So fortunate but how long can this last
I’ve romanced, loved and married
Living a life ever so harried

Raising a family, I’ve worked hard
A successful career achieved without fear
I’ve traveled the globe
Quenching the desire to probe
An unending river, I yearn to learn

I didn’t seek to fail, yet when I did, there wasn’t a wail
So much conflict, I could have done with less
I’ve hated and berated
Later feeling regret

I’ve stood painfully by 
As loved ones wait to die
I’ve known more than one vice
Yet four into eight I’ve not paid a high price

Most of all I’ve embraced hope 
And a burning wish to leave behind
More smiles than frowns, I hope they find
My lifelong ploy is to bring more joy
Yet four into eight I see my fate

I burn bright and remain true to my dream 
Yet things are no longer what they seem
Stripped of feeling  
Have I reached the ceiling

Everything too familiar
Where is the adventure 
Shriveling memories of a first kiss, holding hands
Never knowing where she stands

Remember staring longingly into each other’s eyes
Wanting to know her thoughts, her lies
Stomach churns, heart aches, lips quiver
Yearning for experiences that once made me shiver

The thrill to compete
The challenge to overcome certain defeat
The adrenalin rush before a speech
Or in standing ready to teach

That biochemical cocktail streaming through a vein
I recall being addicted to this sort of pain
Feelings I no longer feel yet now I’m willing to steal
Four into eight and I fear it’s too late

Sitting alone in a crowded Manhattan café
Mulling my plight with all my might
Late afternoon, entertaining and cheerful chatter 
I check my watch, does anything matter 

Another sip of green tea
Just moments before I flee
I foolishly believe the hot tea may thaw feelings within me

There is but one open seat
I fantasize, hoping for a treat
She glides toward me, will I soon be free

Shocking beauty, commanding height
A less confident man would surely take flight
Mesmerized before hello
I wonder how she sees this fellow
Amber eyes framed by long locks of brown
Her face rarely darkened by a frown
Skin of olive, flaws fewer than light

The percussion of her presence is a welcome preamble 
She is cool, distant and poised, well worth the gamble
A charming, confident and sovereign soul
Long and lean the ultimum athleta personifying self control

Not three into eight her abundant energy does captivate  
Her name is Silva, a Balkan beauty
She has migrated west to become her best
Supremely confident, she has a plan
Inquisitive and independent, she is controlled by no man

Charming and beautiful, she can make her own way
Mysterious and elusive, its hard for her to stay

A long forgotten curiosity overcomes him
He longs to know more, yearning for her personal lore

She delays her trust
Anticipation enhances his desire and lust

He’s just four into eight mired in a mystifying debate
The Silva grail marks his trail enabling him to set sail
Oh, a good life, an honest life he may just derail

Her energy, beauty and zeal may allow him to feel
She’s resurrected his yesterdays, yet how many tomorrow’s
It’s never too late, even four into eight

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017


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