In My Bag

In my bag, thirty years
Dispersed
Over depressed tears
And a gloomy tale's slag,
Among these, fickles
Our history,
And a bitter taste trickles,
Deep in my bag;
Our story,
On drafts, lines of poetry,
With smell of burnt success,
And sound, of never mind, kiss
And echoes of something else,
Your broken barrette,
Half of my last cigarette,
Witnessing my dead habit,
With your funny picture,
Pretending to be richer,
Ashen white and black,
With smiles hidden deep

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poem by Jamal Abboud
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Waiting For Love

I always wait echoes of the bell of the last train,
On an old bench, with love, my ancient friend,
Patiently, I often read 'Gone With The Wind',
Though, I keep forgetting the deceptive end.

The sun leaves a yellow smile on the platform,
Light precedes the breathless shades into east,
Umbrella-like shade on two bare sticks chuckles,
Then manages to creep to me as a tamed beast.

The cold mist blurs the scene frequently on time,
All love when it prevails to hide their loneliness,
The station, the bell, the rails and the only being.
The quiet distances unfetter infections of sadness.

Nothing in place cools nor awakens heavy-eyed
The bell have no desire to ring for the uncertain
Of exiled hopes venturing to read one more page,
Thus are eternally left in the world's dim curtain.

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poem by Jamal Abboud
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!