Small Things that Makes Love Stay Fresh
I'm not a formal poet,
no wordsmith of form or pattern.
I'm just a man in love
who likes to paint with words,
polishing lines into a flower verse.
These words are not carved in stone,
nor gold, tried by fire.
They're just free verse,
an expression of my love for you,
Imabong, my dearest.
I know you love to read my lips
when I whisper sweet nothing.
They're a soft melody, a rose
in your hair, a simple gift
of unflinching devotion.
These are the small things we do
to make love blossom.
I remember our walk
across those Californian skies,
how we flew like birds.
We painted that summer red,
our bodies tanned,
beaten by stripes of the sun
Every night we slept like dead logs,
exhausted from a day of
five-star feasting.
Yes, that was when love was young,
exuberant, a juvenile delinquent.
We ran half-naked on the beach,
clubbing every Friday night.
We drank until we were numb,
smoked cigarettes,
and woke up hungover on Saturday mornings.
We lived on a diet of junk food:
hamburgers, shawarmas, ice cream—
whatever we craved, we ate.
But I knew such wild life fades with time.
Those moments of madness we enjoyed,
pass away with age.
Now, at sixty-five, doctors warn,
"Watch your blood pressure.
Don't eat this, don't eat that."
Yet my heart still pounds.
When our grandchildren race off to school,
their parents chasing money
across the city,
I sit alone, but never lonely.
with the ghost of years past,
the memories of our love,
rocking in this chair,
humming old school songs to myself
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