Drenched in waves my years had never seen,
I wrestled with the sins of youth, until
Ashore I scrambled to Spring’s dainty feet
And seized the freedom from my battered past.
I gasped, I panted for the earthy warmth,
In which her careless dip and dabble cast
Aripple countless blooms of reveries.
An evergreen chiffon obscured her form—
A marvel I beheld, bewitched, bemused.
Along the hourglass of shapely slopes,
I stole my way beneath the drapes to trace
The scents with which her dewy vale’s perfused
And savoured each and every step towards
The small of her curvaceous back, wherein
I clasped and craved her wolfishly. Amidst
The chirps and cheeps of fledgling love, I pledged
Myself to mount her lofty glades, whose charm’s
Unseen, untouched and unfathomed before.
With rav’ning craze, at the drop-dead ravine
I gazed, amazed—my mouth agape, my grit
Subdued, my wit reduced—spellbound and mute.
A pilgrim breasted her seraphic bust,
A mortal too unworthy for her touch,
Now nursed and nourished in her sun-kissed love.
And then I snuggled up her swanlike neck,
My hair dishevelled by her balmy sighs
That saw the turf and tassels billowed out.
Whilst time stood still atop the windblown crest,
With souls entwined, our cares resigned, and minds
Enraptured by the silent and sublime,
We made a melody of melded breaths
And heaved a harmony with huddled chests.
Forgotten was the sea, the sky, the tides—
The waves they rolled and rolled back far away,
Their crashes drowned out in Spring’s whispered song,
Their spray a sloppy seal of sunset gold
Nonetheless engraved upon our verse.
I’ve just returned from a good friend’s wedding in Taiwan. Reunions of this sort on one hand make me ponder on the transience of our years, while on the other rebuke me for failing to adapt and catch on quick enough.
Several current events have turned out as ridiculous as they’re regrettable, rendering myself increasingly wary and weary for the future—fuming sometimes, fatigued always. Since my hike at our nearby Buffalo Hill half a month ago, I’ve been trying, on and off, to complete this poem. A blank verse read rather like an ode, a forming from the formless that let loose a splatter of my fanciful pleasures—somewhat idyllic, but not quite innocent. Personally, I think this piece has the potential to become a definitive specimen of my poetry that sums up this bleak and wintry season of my growth (or the lack of it); but, for that to happen, both the poet and the poem might require much more refining beforehand.