Introducing a new series of poems by Julian Matthews. Julian is a writer and Pushcart-nominated poet published in The American Journal of Poetry, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Borderless Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dream Catcher Magazine, Live Encounters Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The New Verse News, among others. He is a mixed-race minority from Malaysia and lived in Ipoh for seven years. Currently based in Petaling Jaya, he is a media trainer and consultant for senior management of multinationals on Effective Media Relations, Social Media and Crisis Communications. He was formerly a journalist with The Star and Nikkei Business Publications Inc
Link: https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
By Julian Matthews
I miss the stooped H of your hammock between two palm trees,
the conch-sounds of the ocean in my ears,
the gentle calm of a blue-green sea on my eyes,
the swish of wind against my face, my hair,
my body lying inside of you
I miss the O of your boarding bridge, like entering a time tunnel,
the heavy weight of routines and deadlines and endless
back-to-back zoom calls, off my tired shoulders,
peeking out of a porthole instead at pastel blue skies,
leaving all my yesterdays behind like so many grey clouds,
to be somewhere else for a quick scenery change,
a getaway, any place, anywhere, but here.
I miss the L of your high-back chair in a resort restaurant,
being led to it like a VIP and your waiter pulling it out
to seat me as if it was a throne and I, the Queen,
about to dine on oysters and lobster
and caviar and chilled wine
I miss the I of your Island, the silent S for serenity
as if when I-land on your shores
you are announcing my arrival, beckoning me
to come cuddle in your lap,
your high threadcount sheets, your soft, goose down
pillows, your cosy comforter, your scented long tubs,
your seaview balcony, all yours
I miss the D of upturned smiles, the stewardess, the doorman,
the receptionist, the concierge, the waitress, the poolside barman,
the towel boy, no matter how practised the greetings are,
just the act of making me feel welcomed
in a new, fresh, minty, silky retreat,
to be feted and cared for as if
I was a Somebody – not just anybody
I miss the A of your steeple or church or temple,
that obelisk of human endeavour from centuries past,
structures that are phallic and sturdy,
architecture to strain necks and stand back in awe of,
hand-hewn historical monuments erected
to reach for the skygods and transcend time
I miss the Y of standing on a hillside, a cliff,
the topmost part of a trek, arms akimbo
admiring the sunset, or sunrise,
or just the misty, mountainous landscape,
the expanse of the horizon, taking it all in,
then screaming out loud, Yes! I love you Earth!
I love your beauty, your very nature, your mystery,
every curvaceous contour, every leaf on your canopied trees,
every grain of wet sand squishing between my toes,
every wave smacking me like lips,
all your warm waters enveloping me in a full-body massage,
all the heat, humidity and intensity pulsating within my every pore,
lifting me higher and higher, to a level beyond this plane,
a brief, momentary ascendance
only to gratefully and gracefully
nuzzle against the neck of your heavens
I miss you holiday
I really, really miss you
First published in “Poems From County Clare And Far Beyond: an anthology by Irish poets and their friends around the world”, available on Amazon: https://a.co/d/dYIyLRl
