And then the
two emeralds
pierced my soul
again.
The applause sounded
like the silent wind
as he was disappearing
in the cheerful crowd.
I followed his footsteps.
Far from the lights,
close to the leather car seats .
The moon persued us and
witnessed the moment when
the bird finally lost her wings
that were already broken.
Because she wasn't hit by a
white river stone, but by a
real diamond.
No one can take my freedom away
... Or so she thought

I

Thirsty now; mouth dry like
A desert wanderer's,
Single man in solitude
Swiping right and

Not even caring
Too much.
Just looking for trouble;
Microwave-romance, softness;

A face that fits my hand.
Guitars gathering dust, begging
St. Gibson for inspiration
To shake their owner into

Lust fuelled
Songwriting; string breaking, pick
Melting, voice straining.
For now, the last of five litres of

Italian red is floating bellywards;
Bloodwards; headwards;
Heartwards, and the drinker writes
Text message poetry with drops of

Wine hiding in barley beard too
Full for an old mother's appreciation.
I owe her a grandchild.
She says poems don't count.

II

Thirsty now; heart dry like one
Not recalling love, not remembering
A woman's hungry hands on
The back of one's

Warm, wet head, pulling, nails
Digging,
Teeth biting beard.
Skin kissing skin.

Soul seeing soul and
Celebrating.
Sweet illusion of love.
I create a bed-sharer on canvas.

I compose a breakfast-eater at my table.
A listener to my songs,
Sunset-watcher, Netflix-snuggler,
Rainstorm-listener.

I owe for her to be flesh and blood, not merely
My neurons dancing. Ears to hear
My compliments. Hair to brush
Away from between

Our lips mid-kiss.
I finish my wine.
Could have made nearly painful
Love to her

For ages and
Aeons, but I
Create her temporarily;
Fleeting image of a speaking doll.

Hold me like tears on something
Golden. Hold me like an acid
Trip fading into reality.
She says poems don't count.

She says
Poems
Don't really
Count.

Thanks  everyone  for  all  your  support.
I  cannot  keep  up  with  all  the
notifications.
It,s  truly  wonderful.
Thanks  very  much  again..

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

The black cat
cried out loud
to the moon from
a place where she
couldn't be seen.
But from the sound
of the lonesome melody
i knew that autumn was here.
I never imagined that
death could be beautiful
untill i saw the falling leaves.
Red,golden,brown.
And I started to fall while
the crickets were singing
on the gentle breeze.
Months have passed.
I can't remember the
last time when i got lost
in my own thoughts,
staring at the old wooden
clock as the hands stroke midnight.
I feel like a bird locked
in an iron cage, desperate
for the freedom the sky offered,
although there was the
blue vast underneath.
Those who harbor their dreams
to be alone must have forgotten
how it's like to be lonely.
The air outside was poisonous
and not many gems
were sprinkled.
But the night sky does not
possess all the stars.
Some of them simply
belong to the sea.