love grows and gets lost as it goes
short is its bloom
crumbles as a withered rose

Justified and ancient thoughts,
deeper than the current media,
as daft and important as thumbing a nose
at those who claim to know better

Much can be drawn in asking
“What time is love?”
or even doctoring the TARDIS.

Makes as much sense
as licking the wind in a pandemic,
I guess

When rooms sleep and birds carry heartache to trees, when light
is gone and peace is woven into dreams: I will build myself a nest
and unfold the poem I stole. I will taste with care the words you
chose, and pretend you wrote them for me.

(I will love, I will love, I will love)

I fell
Into a
Nice spot

Happy
Creative
Sublime

Whiskey
Free

Around his shaking fingers he wound that single, silver tress
that cord of silken silver that her beloved face once caressed

He could feel its softness around those quivering fingers
as, upon the coffins satin lining, her scent still lingered

He wept, recalling the dark nights when for her warmth he longed
seeing her face amongst those of the mourners who thronged

And knew, as his tears fell, that that single silver tress of hair
it would bind him to the one who lay forever sleeping there

All beginnings conclude with the middle
This hole in the roof
And all that grass to roll
The poetry of life
If only these flowers could think
In this night so dark
Lend me your lantern
Along this road so dusty
The rain fell in torrents
Floating in a great pool of water
Consoled by the reflection
Then he wiped his eyes
A great loss to every one
Gave a whisk with his tail
Went back into his hole - in the roof
And the storm grew
Lost in its way

Gypsy