* * *
I guess I still think about you
more than I would like to admit
Poems on the topic: regret
Poems on the topic “regret” on Poets.by.
missu
There are days where I feel so much,
My heart pounds, my eyes sweat, my knees shake and my memories jog.
They all go back to you,
The feelings double,
I wish I didn't pick rocks over you,
I wish my feelings were stable that day,
I didn't mean to hurt you.
the tenth octave
i gather the fractured sunlight,
savouring the feel of it pooling
in my palms, a glistening ambrosia
nestling its weight, safe and sound.
i wish not to forget, but alas, the
12th chime rings; they tug on my
heart and in its fervent rush, i am
stolen away once again.
i wish to keep my heart where it belongs,
for the sun to ever rain on my lonely
parade, to see it upon my horizon once
more, the taste of its sweetness upon
my tongue and on my vulnerable breast;
but i can only package all my regret and grief
into a shimmering glass slipper, a left behind
memoir of that rising octave my life's melody
lune
today i admired the moon once again
on my way home. it was a cloudless night,
just as years ago, the same steps, the
same path, the same old thing. however,
that same luminous glow of the moon was
much gentler, much more loving and soothing
as compared to back then, its light no longer
glaringly icy as if it could cut steel; but it was
as warm as if it could melt the frost around
my heart, encasing me in a past never forgotten,
its unloving grasp pulling me in, sinking in, drowning.
my hands finally unravelling the red threads
binding me to fears, insecurities, delusions, regret,
guilt; as i raise my hand up one last time
and remember,
the same scenery, the same path,
Apology
As word's
Hurrytumble
I want to apologize
For everything I have ever done
cut
I use to cut
But now I don't,
I always think about it
But I never do
I once fell,
now Im sore
If I could go back
I would say stop,
I'd take the knife,
never wanting too go back
But I might in the end.
I can't change the pasts
But I can change the future,
I won't cut like
I used too,
But now I dont have a choice.
Dust of Snow
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
A Minor Bird
I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
Summer Morning
There are whole blocks in New York
Where no one lives —
A district of small factories.
And there's a hotel; one morning
When I was there with a girl
We saw in the window opposite
Men and women working at their machines.
Now and then one looked up.
Toys, hardware — whatever they made,
It's been worn out.
I'm fifteen years older myself —
Bad years and good.
So I have spoiled my chances.
For what? Sheer laziness,
The thrill of an assignation,
My life that I hold in secret.
Ninety-Seven
Had I stooped
to gather shells,
I might at least
have made
a keepsake.
Winter's Bitter Edge
The walking man studies the footprints he’s made in the
freshly-fallen snow, footprints meandering back through
time, back through time with his thoughts. There he finds
a boy playing by a stream, happy as a boy can be. He
walks over and says, “Hello.” The boy doesn’t hear. He
wants to say “remember this” but all he can do is watch
for a while as the child works his way along the bank and
finally out of sight.
His thoughts lead back to a grassy field where a young
man tosses hay bales onto a wagon. The man in the snow
wants to shout “be careful” but again can only watch as
the farm cart passes by. He knows the young man has no
reason to listen to the wind. Turning up his collar, he
shrugs away the cold.
Carnival
The mariachi
trumpets fade with the red gored sun
mellowing at dusk.
Children dart behind,
scuffling in the dust, brown wrinkled skin like
scabbards of lost dreams.
You sit in the dark
a silhouette singing Spanish songs
of lost love and pain.
I hear church bells
in your voice, the lonely pang of night
keeps you drifting
between dreams and sorrow,
of lost opportunities, things unsaid,
actions incomplete.
You lay beside me
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