perfect human imperfections
the gentle roll of a teardrop
down a sun-beaten cheek
falling from eyes of incomprehensible depth
ocean eyes

endless moments in time
snippets of absolute joy and content
small eternities of a life that's been lived

sleepless nights
early morning hours
of peace
of solitude
a mind, a silent fortress

deep breaths on cold days
stinging lungs
seeping warmth from a hot drink

the slow spread of a smile
the result of a scandalous idea

a wisp of smoke from a house-chimney
conjuring images of a cosy, loving family

all the little things
the little bits of beauty
are what to live for

Your fingers soared over the keys.
You breathed love into the warm, bell-like tones.
You shook your head if you missed a note,
your eyes danced,
and around your grin
your mouth said
"I still have time,"
you said.
"I still have time before the concert."

A family trip, driving home,
back from the dunes of Michigan.
A father, mother, brother, you,
a sister left at home.
You sat in the back.
You were laughing, your family.
It was the last time they've laughed so hard.

A bend in the road,
a turn into town,
your car,
slowing down.
A different car, behind you,
did not slow down.

It slammed straight into you.
The metal crunched behind you,
the car spun, and your head bounced.
A helicopter came,
to take you away.

It was too quiet at the hospital.
But you couldn't tell.
You were in a coma.
"Brain trauma,"
the doctors said.
"And a broken leg and clavicle."
They didn't mention the broken
hearts.

They tried to pump life into your chest,
air into your lungs,
much like you
pumped life into the body of your clarinet.
But the machines failed where you did not.
The human in you had gone;
only a body was left.

You're playing for the angels now,
I know you are.
There's a smile on your lips,
in your eyes,
your brown, dancing eyes,
as your fingers effortlessly
fly over the keys,
you play
for the only audience
that could ever
hold you.

the destination?
technicolor paradise:
Imagination

hot meals cooked by Mom,
gone, replaced, hollow airports
absence of storge

Morning sun rises, here he comes
All night I have waited
Waiting for him to wake from his slumber

He is old, frail in need of company
She left him for a place in the clouds
Never a smile only a frown

I long to say good day
Its lonely on the web
Waiting to snare a bug
On the silken strands I call home

He shuffles his feet along the rug
I watch it all high upon the ceiling
Wishing for a glance upon my web

He never see's me
I see him with all eight eyes
Mr Mccoy, That's what I call him

He makes a cup of tea
I stretch a few legs hoping he will notice
The kettle boils, steam burns my feet
I scuttle to the top as beads form
Like raindrops on silver strings

His tender eyes peer out glass panes
Watching his crop, Old Mr Mccoy
Deep lines mark his face, thoughts of her mark his mind

Eight legs, no way to hug
If only he would see a friend in me

A picture of her, a tear shed
I spin my web, lowering
Closer and closer to his head

"Mr Mccoy ill be your friend!"
No words can I make to fall on death ears
He takes his tea and leaves me be

Tomorrow he might look up
Ill be ready, waiting on my web.

You wanted a love like in the movies;
rain drenched white shirts, palms covered
in daisy pollen; I love you more than--
a phone call, long distance, your fingers
curling the telephone wire like you're pulling me
towards you
like a fibre optic pheromone.
Soundtracks of a jazz piano, and old jukebox hits,
flared skirts and Mary Jane shoes, square dancing.

But most of the time, we don't get to choose
the colour of the bedsheets. In this story,
I know you're going to leave me. I can sense
the zoom of your eyes, rolling away from me.
The lighting in the room, like the ones where something
awful is about to happen: a sad, sick orange
like a cheap sunset; the music, or lack thereof,
the way you bite your lip like you're about to
break my heart.

You look to the ground, and I know this is where
the narration will start;

this is the story of the first time
someone broke my heart.  
She's going to look up at me
and say the words,
It's all over-

and in a jump frame
the thunderclap will mask the sound
of my heart shattering, the sob disappearing
into my throat.

You wanted a love like in the movies,
honey,
we all did.

But then the rain came, and the flowers
drowned in their beds.
You left your umbrella by the doorstep,
I hope you don't catch a cold.

Close your eyes

Your world, not extending
beyond the soft quilt under
your skin, unending


Soft ripples of cloth, and picturesque seams
Nothing here but
You, me, the sky, and soft dreams

I'll reach up and take the stars from the sky
If only to lay them at your feet
to place them in your hands
to bring light into those glazed eyes
or give a glow to a world so bland

and each one would be folded
into a beautiful origami castle
I, the lord, and you, the vassal
Or perhaps me as the king
and you as a queen, whichever
My gentle playmate.. which one is better?

I'm a majestic creature of the sky
You're an empty-faced child on a quilt
Each star shall be used as a stepping stone
so I might meet you in the place I built


Let us meet, as lovers, or
at least equals
on this starry floor

The country lane is covered with powdery snow,
Like a blanket it clasps the street and field;
The icy wind is uttering an auspicious sough.
Trudging towards my destination that niveous fir trees yield.

Amidst the eerie lonely hush, down in the frozen valley,
A glimmer of light reflecting on crystalline snowflakes;
The place appearing like a lighthouse down the alley.
I reach your house, next to the frozen solid lake,
It is the only bright glare in this devouring black night.

You are my stars in the universe, guiding me through the dark,
You are my anchor in the untamed tides, precluding me to roam;
And with a violent streak of intuition, like a sudden spark,
A feeling of bliss - I realize I finally arrived at home.