POETRY

Unwritten Novel 

You’ll never be written 
if I don’t sit down and take the time to. 
I wish I had all the words typed out, 
to know you were finished 
and ready for the world to see. 
Still, most of you lives in my mind 
with occasional half-written scenes 
scattered across pages I struggle 
to keep track of. 
But trust me, 
one day,  
I’ll have finished writing you.  

An Instrumental Love Story 

I fell for Music at the age of four,  
entranced by Vivaldi’s violins and Mozart’s piano. 
I knew from the start, 
it would stay with me forever. 
 
My relationship with Piano lasted a rocky 14 years. 
Many lessons left me in tears, 
but even a different teacher didn’t help. 
Despite the pain of never playing well enough,  
I couldn’t bring myself to quit. 
Too wrapped up in my love for what it could be. 
I threatened to leave,  
but every time, it begged me to stay. 
 
Violin came into my life at 10 years old 
when I changed to a new school. 
I picked it up well for the two years I played, 
but then my big sister poked fun at my love, 
and convinced me to join band instead. 
My heart ached, knowing I let it collect dust in its case, 
always wishing I’d pick it up again for a second chance. 
 
When band introduced me to Saxophone, 
it was a passionate love from the start.  
The first three years together were magical, 
but when the music we played grew dull, 
the magic of it left me, 
and Music departed from my life. 
 
Five years since our breakup, 
Music has found its way back to me, 
and I’m eager for that second chance 
now that my love has been rekindled 
in the form of Fiddle 
that sets the pubs ablaze. 

Sharing A Glass of Wine on the Floor of a Bookstore

We tried to listen to the speech, we really did, 
but the man spoke for nearly two hours. 
When our backs started to ache, 
we slipped away,  
in search of books to read and places to sit. 
 
The man droned on, 
and the wine and cake lay untouched. 
A woman stepped away from the crowd 
and reached for the unopened bottle, 
pouring herself a glass. 
 
When the woman left, 
we made our move, 
tip-toeing up the creaking steps,  
snatching the freshly opened bottle 
and three wine glasses. 
 
Huddled back at the bottom of the steps, 
we set the glasses on the ground, 
pouring the dark red liquid. 
Quietly we returned the bottle to the table, 
and sat on the floor, raising our glasses 
before taking a drink.