will we finally know
what we have always
   wanted to
when our lives end
   long expected
   always too sudden

or will it just be
   once more
the old wisdom
that we know little
   and that
at the wrong time

I  still  love  my  Catherine  dearly.
Her  beauty  unsurpassed.
Long  golden  hair  and  pale  blue  eyes.
I  still  think  of  her  like  that.

But  that  was  four  decades  ago.
The  time  has  just  elapsed.
But  time  stands  still  in  the  memory.
Just  like  a  photograph.

We  were  to  marry  one  March  day.
But  circumstances  took  me  away.
When  I  returned  from  foreign  climes.
Life  had  moved  on  with  the  times.

I  never  saw  her  ever  again.
Odd  letters  I  did  get.
She  was  swallowed  up  in  city  life.
And  I  often  have  regrets.

Has  she  grown  old  gracefully.
Or  in  youthful  beauty  died.
Many  times  I've  thought  of  her.
And  many  times  I've  cried.

But  in  my  mind's  eye  clearly.
Running  swiftly  down  the  hill.
A  vision  of  loveliness.
Within  my  memory  still.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK. 2016.

An  inanimate  object.

I'm  a  picture  hung  on  a  wall.
Hope  I'm  secure  I  might  fall.
People  stand  and  stare.
Like  the  horse  that  stands  up  there.
They  never  mention  my  lovely  frame.
They  think  I  am  just  fair  game.
Sometimes  they  move  me  all  about.
I  just  cry  and  sometimes  shout.
It  gets  so  lonely  sat  up  here.
Never  get  food  or  a  nice  cool  beer.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Maybe writing will save me
but tell that to Virginia Woolf
When my body lays in the soil to
fertilize the Earth maybe
I will come back as an Aspen tree
and the robins could make circular nests
to safe keep their hatch-lings
I was baptized in neon lights
In the city of Denver
like living in a snow globe
driving drunk after hours
I wonder what Times Square
looks like right now
These tailor made dreams
entire generations chasing paper
Get rich quick schemes where the
obstinate promise of prosperity
will be our legacy and anchor
Where's the avatar of our times
Is he or she working in an office
or clipping coupons and getting by
just barely on rent  working in
a dispensary selling legal marijuana?      
old enough to go to war but not get drunk
off tequila
it seems like massive hysteria
and I was at the grocery store buying
bread and the cashier was talking about
New World Order, the Illuminati and
receiving a red sticker in the mail.
Graffiti-tombs and voodoo
I wonder where Lord Byron is buried?
I wonder if Jesus is coming back
or if terrorists will listen to the Beatles
and declare that love is all you need.

“I love you”
“I loved you too”

“I’m here to stay”
“But you walked away”

“I accept, I bow”
“I’m sorry but I have to go”

“You can’t be going”
“I was tired of waiting”

“But I have come back”
“Sorry I have changed my track”

“You said you’d die without me”
“I did. When you left me“

“I need a chance. A last one. Take me back”
“We are in different worlds.
You, 10 feet above the ground
And me, 10 feet down”

“I’m sorry, I’m late”
“It’s right when they say, you can’t really fight fate”

Broken wings,
Scarred tonight

Tomorrow morning,
Brings another life

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.
there is snow within me and wild winds outside my door,
and i watch from the window while my crops wither.

i silence the sun.

he stands at my gate with nimble fingers and begs to be let in,
but i have always been a grove of shadows,
and he knows there is no space for him.

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.

but other times,
spring finds me.
it lifts me up into its gentle arms and suddenly i am a field of clovers,
lucky,
rising up.
suddenly i am baby’s breath, i am pure,
i am a blooming hyacinth.

i am warm.

i know what a change in season feels like.

and i try to be loving.
but on the days when i have gotten up
and planted my seeds,
you are still tangled in thick black weeds and roots.
on the days when i am a rose,
you are the thorns,
and on the days when i grant the sun a chance to speak,
you take his tongue.

i know your pain; i have lived it.
but i will not give up my songbirds just because you are only left with crows.

i know what a change in season feels like,
but you are always winter.
and sometimes, i am spring.

so i will flourish.
and i am sorry.

(a.m.)