evening shadows–
fallen plums
under the plum tree.
Is love more
than toys and pearls
played with by boys and girls?
Is charm possible without harm?

Fear, like love,
sets the heart racing
and so what is eros beyond
the chase and the terror?

Look for it and you won't find it,
close it in your hands
and it'll be gone,
like sand through your fingers.

And yet we know it's there,
it's just the rules of its game
don't seem fair at first,
and so we blame the other
who was once our lover.

I guess, in the end,
love is no more
than putting your heart out there,
right where it hurts,
right where you care.
First I grasped at mummy's finger,
at bright lights and bouncing balls.
Then at video game controllers,
at sports racquets, and girls's skirts.

Science and sums then reached for me,
and I believed their inviting lie
that lonely man can grasp his place
in the perilous disorder of things.

But my qualm-ridden quest became a grapple,
with truth and the proper use of it.
The village pews that once held my heart
became too small, and so I asked:

"Can truth be held within four walls?
Is progress more than waiting for a fate
of that final forgetting as we drool
on our grandchildren from wheelchairs?"

I have wasted so much of my precious life
and remain convinced I've yet much to give.
One day perhaps I'll watch the sun set with my son:
will I lie to him that life makes sense?

I have learnt that only silence
can answer the questions science cannot.
Each ruthless second tries
to teach me truth and lies,
of longings of lusting dust,
and questions I must hide
from my lonely mind.

Empty bed, full head,
cold coffee, zipped-up suitcases:
I guess I'm trying to embrace
all the parts of life
that don't make sense yet.

No-one else sees the stupid choices
I make on a daily basis, so I alone
must face the ticking clock,
the forgotten sunsets, the unread books
that I once promised to enjoy.
We are more
than broken wings
and hearts that sing
like broken records.
I once ran
through green fields
without a care
or a coin in my pocket,
and nettle stings on my knees.
The thing about time is
you can’t stop it,
so the innocent joy I felt
as a lonely boy is gone,
like a lost lover.
Where does it go?
Is it like the rose’s perfume
that lingers in the air,
‘cos I felt it once
as I smelt the fresh cut grass,
and it doesn’t feel fair
to have lost it so soon.
money can’t buy it
clouds can’t hide it
books can’t define it
the heart can’t deny it
pearls can’t outshine it
you’re rich when you find it
you’re a beggar without it
no-one knows what it is but
you know when you’ve got it
my eyes are wet
my forehead drips
with sweat and yet
I've no regret.
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