Aaaa
       aaaa
                   aaah…
Little Claire’s last words before she went
Turned phantom, lost forever from the touchable world
I know her as the ghost who hides in the kitchen cabinets,
Haunting our tea saucers,
And other good china…
Unable to cross over that fine river
Searching, incomplete, she is
Unsatisfied in some way
If only she could remember why

I am forgetful too
Mother is mad at me
I didn’t dust the cabinet linings
Like she asked
But Claire is so grateful, because I forgot
Just long enough, for the dust to
Gather
What she left unfinished,
A simple sneeze,
She really didn’t have a clue.

Finally…
Choo!
No more unfinished business.

*God bless you, Claire.

Why not, one shot
What do you got to lose
Giving my heart a bruise
Leaving me with the blues
Leaving me so confuse

Let me turn you on girl
But you keep shutting me down
Let me turn you on girl
But keep turning me down
Let me turn you on girl
But you keep blowing me off
Let me turn you on girl
But you won’t give me a shot

Why not, one shot
Why can’t I have a chance
We could go for a dance
Why are you so against
Why can’t we have romance

Just give me one chance, one shot
One chance, one shot
Just give me one chance, one shot
One chance, one shot
Just give me one chance, one shot
One chance, one shot
Just give me one chance, one shot
One chance, one shot

Let me turn you on girl
But you keep shutting me down
Let me turn you on girl
But keep turning me down
Let me turn you on girl
But you keep blowing me off
Let me turn you on girl
But you won’t give me a shot

Flower
Bold

Sat

Proudly
Wrapped....in
Strands

I looked up
You were gone
Traces of you

Row upon row, I saw them, instantly, ‘I did’,  
shuffled bodies bulged past me, they ‘did not’.
Fingers, lived to touch, light dim in part,
not here, spotlit, it said “Do not touch”,

how can I know?  Disobedient held
up in my palm, angling my hand
this way, that way. It happened then,
our grey blue pupils, like full stops, clung,

I did not know it would be a memory pocket.
A sentence in time snatched my happy face,
fear bought me. Under my skin, groping pins
pricking the base of my neck pushed into my skull.

Spun, bumping bodies smelling of beached waves,
hard gulps, sweat caught in between my fingers.
It was time to tie up loose thoughts, forget
I pushed away with speed, in a strange place,

street, shop,  where was I? Where are you?!  
By your side in safe sofas, I hand swung
down the banister, released the bolt,
safety catch hanging...and gone....

There's a stirring when old ways start to whisper
Almost without a hint of knowing

Despite very good intentions
Despite diligence

When the whispers start ...

... Do we listen?
Or do we explain it away?

"Probably just a creak in an old joint settling ... just one of those noises old vessels make in the midst of the darkest hours...it's nothing."  a voice will often offer up in the hope of silencing vigilant angels.

After all we're all big boys and girls. We can do this on our own.

*Right?

He told me I could search the world over and I would never find anything anywhere quite like him

I'm a Leo  

So I took that as a challenge and headed out on a journey

I returned to his door two and a half years later triumphant

When he opened his door I stated with pride "I did it!"  

"Prove it." he demanded quietly leaning against his door frame, looking, both intrigued and unconvinced.

I took off my back pack, set it on the step, reached in, carefully withdrew a mason jar and passed it to him.

"What's this?" he asked

"You."

"It's an empty mason jar."

"It's not at all empty. It's filled to the brim with all the stuff you're made of."

"Oh? What kind of stuff?"

" Inside that bottle is the magic of a rainbow I found in Greenland, star light I found in the North West Territories, wind from each of the four corners, air that's been caressed by butterfly wings from St. Lucia, sun beams from Samoa, the innocence of a newborn from Uruguay, the passion of a gypsy from Romania, the heat of a thunder bolt from South Carolina, the fragrance of the first bloom of summer from England, the poetic joy of Ireland, and one salty tear of a mermaid from Fiji.  You."  I said again triumphantly

"All that's in here, eh?"

I nodded.

"Well, you must be tired, being right can be exhausting." he said with a grin as he reached out for my hand

"It is and I am." I admitted placing my hand in his

"Would you like to come in?"

" Yes, I would like to come in. I'd like that very much."

A puddle bloomed on his knee,
as he sat beneath the poplar,
before the church,
waiting.
Anytime now, she
would **** by on her bike
that made noises like a rabid top.
The two soggy cones, held
in his shaking fists
dripped
strawberry cream,
sticky, pungent, and pink.
He had heard that girls like pink.
Roadside gravel crunched
and spun as she
approached.
Her brown legs
were always moving, the
muscles changing—they would
have driven Leonardo mad.
She passed by
blind.
He let the pink
cones fall to the dirt with
the others. Ants gnawed on his
legs. He would try again.
Climbing on the
bridge
with hands full,
always of strawberry cream,
he wavered, nearly fell, and sat
down on the stone ledge.
Gravel ricocheted.
Sleeves,
his and hers,
touched as she passed.
He nearly fell in the water, but
she touched his sleeve,
touched him.
Pink
swirls teased
fish in the rocky creek.
He became a crossing arm with
strawberry cream cones.
Stones sprayed.
Crash.
Why didn’t
you move, you idiot,
she growled, wiping ****** stones
off her once-perfect
knees. He didn’t
speak.
I love you.
Can you move? My
boyfriend is waiting for me, she said,
standing on the pedals,
her legs still.
Numb,
he shifted,
and she whizzed away.
He looked at the gravel lining the bridge
and saw blood staining
the pebbles
red
and pink.
Sifting, them through his
fingers, he knew that on her, he had
left his mark, and him,
she would not
forget.