THE TRILOGY

I met a boy on the train and wrote a poem about him. Four years later he contacted me having only met him once in those four years, by pure coincidence, for about 10 minutes. He has inspired a further two poems which I have now called The Trilogy. Our story continues.

Funky Glasses

Young and sexy delicious as fruit,
I’ve not seen him here before,
Does he travel to Brighton, what for?
Alone he travels with pen and paper,
Has he come from a tall skyscraper,
He looks not like a business man,
Perhaps in fashion, designer he can.

Whatever his profession, a mystery he is,
Unable to read him like a magazine quiz,
In his own world, he is quietly asleep,
Meditating peacefully or just counting sheep.

His glasses are totally with the funk,
And his good looks make him a bit of a spunk,
I hope he knows he has a special charm,
And a disposition of peace and calm.
The Brighton to London Poet
© 2005 MCARB

Mysterious Delirium

A man so stylish my eyes did greet,
Never before had I wanted to see,
Reaction to my words how would he be.
The smile so natural perhaps he’s pleased,
Must remain hidden so the moment is seized,
To give such pleasure a selfless act,
The intention is such not fiction just fact.

The beauty of art expands far beyond,
Moves with grace white swan in a pond,
The power of words entices the soul,
For life is most beautiful when it is whole.

The poem is given my work is done,
Never to see him contact is none,
Yet fate will lead him to me once more,
It’s a mystery with so much delirium in store.

He appears from nowhere on stage am I,
The timing impeccable I thought I would die,
Not knowing how he truly did feel,
My heart beat increasing where is my shield?

That brief encounter my question unanswered,
He later requests no more emails I’ve tampered,
It seems there will be no contact no more,
As long as my poetry he did once adore.

Three years have passed a message he sends,
What calls he now what flavour he blends,
The mystery unfolds the illusion now clear,
Touched by my words no longer I fear.

To meet or not the question remains,
Elusive and brave beguiling it wanes,
The delirium seduces the erotic it stays,
The silence of touch forever the days.
The Brighton To London Poet
© 2009 MCARB

Wheels of Fate

What brings him to me is unclear,
We met by pure chance you can see,
And now the forces bring him near,
No explanation perhaps by a seer.

As I ride this train listening to the kooks,
The situation leaves me feeling somewhat spooked,
Yet the exciting shivers do outweigh,
And all I can do is ruminate all day.

His face so sweet and full of stories,
Of ancient wisdom and future glories,
He lives a tale of varied moments,
Spontaneous in motion the thought his sense.

A transitional position an axis he sits,
Waiting for the wheels of fate to persist,
His destiny it spins in all directions,
For where it lands is not his own fruition.

He has lurked about and entered my mind,
In an unforeseen and unpredictable sublime,
But who really cares about applying such logic,
For the feeling inside is purely wild magic!

The Brighton To London Poet

© 2009 MCARB