An oldie with a slight re-write: When this house

An oldie with a slight re-write:

When this house

When this house is fast asleep
I hear the door-jamb sigh and weep,
repeating secrets, once said,
when all the others were in bed.
I, startled, cough then splutter your name,
waking, like sleeping, no longer the same.


Where my memory goes

Seems that nobody knows
when I’m hanging out clothes
my emotions dissolve into tears
could be your scent in my nose
is where my memory goes
I get to thinkin’ on all of them years.

Perhaps I should enquire
if at all you’d desire
to relive some times that we had
when our love was on fire
and you may call me a liar
but there’s time when times weren’t bad.

I remember us strollin’
rockin’, reeling’ an rollin’
to some gig on a Saturday night,
then with fingers all swollen
as we finished off bowlin’
we kissed at that red neon light.

Here’s hopin’ we’ve learned
that our love was adjourned
and not hung up to die on a cross
with expectation more reasoned
and two people more seasoned
we could make up for all that we lost.


poem / lyric © copyright Brian Shirra 2015

The Keepsake

A light summer breeze calls for more casual dress,
No jacket, or perhaps carefully laced through a shoulder bag.
Court shoes for comfort and repelling male colleagues
Dark hair, fairly short but wavy with layer after layer.

An upturned nose, that Audrey Hepburn look, a winner.
Her beautiful smile, lit whenever she recognised someone.
The carefree way that she moved, that also moved me,
A pain in my chest whenever she alighted from the bus.

Amazingly I got to know her. She spoke to me first (naturally).
She noticed me smiling at her and asked if she could sit by me.
Gradually we learned some things about each other – her boyfriend,
my girlfriend, favourite nights out – a journeying friend on a morning bus.

Looking back was she ever more than that? No and yes.
Here was someone that I looked forward to meeting every day,
my life enhanced whenever we spent that little time together.
Deeply disappointed whenever she was not there.

Now. Now she is a memory, a keepsake that I cannot hold and
do not need to. She is a smile that returns to my face when I think
about her. Once there was a wish on my part to be more than this.
I wonder if she thinks about, or even remembers, me. I hope so.


poem © copyright Brian Shirra 2014