My friend, I would sooner fear the reason why
I did not grasp an opportunity with both hands
And wring the very essence of life from it;
Than I would fear the opportunity itself.

Rolling with the times,
I offer the past to the past,
And the future to the future,
So that I may remain present.

Robert told Olive
And Olive told Dee
That Emma likes Peter
But Peter likes me.

And Stephen saw Jamie
Tell Anna and George
That Vicky kissed Edward
And Clarence kissed Maude.

But Peter told Edward
And Edward told me
That Vicky saw Stephen
Tell Clarence and Dee

That Robert kissed Emma
So Anna told George
That Olive likes Jamie
But Jamie likes Maude

Robert told Olive
And Olive told Dee
That Emma likes Peter
But Peter likes me.

And Stephen saw Jamie
Tell Anna and George
That Vicky kissed Edward
And Clarence kissed Maude.

But Peter told Edward
And Edward told me
That Vicky saw Stephen
Tell Clarence and Dee

That Robert kissed Emma
So Anna told George
That Olive likes Jamie
But Jamie likes Maude

Ducks wrestle doubly
Wet from rain and river flow;
As above…qua-a-ack…so below.

past
present
future

what was
what is
what will be

irreducibly distinct
yet indefinable - one without the other
a temporal trinity

The train I missed left me waiting on the platform in the rain, rush-hour commuters splashing past. Then you offered me your umbrella, half-an-hour of conversation, and a smile so warm it could melt chocolate. Now, somewhere between A and B, on an express bound for home, I realise I’ve missed you too.

Swinging rhythmically; bloated and unsteady,
He nudges at the doorway of his desire,
And descends into darkness,
Carrying his heavy load of lust.

Beyond the bottleneck,
From where warmth and light beckon,
He hears the trill of girlish laughter,
The sound of sanctuary at play.

Pausing briefly; head cocked to one side,
He sighs with resignation,
Deposits his craving clumsily,
And withdraws deflated and defeated.

Once again.

My inkwell brims with verse unfit,
My speech tongue-tied; my page unwrit,
Yet though I be misunderstood,
Prefer I this to words of wood.

How can I pour my existence onto the page,
To stand firm, true, inviolate;
Like this arrangement of ancient bark?

My words written in their time,
Shed themselves like autumn leaves,
Tumbled and turned by the winds of the creative mind.

Will they whisper to those who would hear,
Of greener times and memories unfurled,
My secrets, my shame, my joy, my sorrows?

To be picked up and appreciated for their sunset colouring,
Swept aside with impatience as a trifling incidental,
Or trampled to dust by the pell-mell of rushing feet.

And which, dear reader, are you - a collector, a sweeper, or a trampler?

I’m wearing your old jacket. Remember? The one you used to fish in. The one with the tear in the silk of the right-hand pocket. You used to tease me. You used to say that this jacket kept your loose change safe from my chocolate addiction. You being left-handed; me being right.

I bury my face in the nap of the moleskin collar. My nostrils fill with your scent - stale cologne, a hint of woodsmoke, and...fish. More disconcerting than unpleasant, it’s all I can do not to choke on my memories of you. Of me and you. Together.

'Tell me, how can I be, now that you alone are gone and I am left behind?'

I feel like I’ve been abandoned in a foreign capital with nothing more than the clothes I stand up in and a wallet full of the wrong kind of currency. The day is drawing to a close. My luggage has disappeared with the exhaust from the bus which took off before I could catch my breath and explain my dilemma - that I’m not sure where I’m going or even where I’ve been. Lately.

Maybe a kindness will point me in the right direction. An open-all-hours diner on an inner-city corner, snuggled in between the high-rise office blocks. Maybe I’ll have enough cash for a meal and a trail of hot, sweet tea to lead me into tomorrow. Maybe I’ll close my eyes and remember where I’m supposed to be and what I should be doing.

And just maybe, as the rhythm of the traffic slows and the night progresses, I’ll find some peace in the ever-changing cityscape. A time-lapse production of late revellers, harried shift workers, the dispossessed and restless; until finally the earliest commuters and exercise fanatics emerge from the riverside neighbourhoods to face the new dawn.

‘Hey, lady.’ A disgruntled voice shatters my reverie. 'I ain’t got all day, y’know.' Scrambling for cash, I reach deep into your left-hand pocket and find...***...a limp fifty-dollar bill...and a battered envelope. There’s a note scrawled on the outside in your familiar hand:

'How can you be, now that I alone have gone and you are left behind? The short answer is: you will be. For you are as singular and complete today as you were before 'mine' became 'yours' and 'I' became 'we'. My darling, I’m no tourist. You know how impatient I can get - always taking the most direct route. I’m just out of sight around the next corner. You take your time and meet me when you’re ready. Sometime...later. Whenever. I’ll be waiting.'

Stunned, I mutter an apology to the waitress and step out from the warm fug of the café into a bright, fresh New York morning. The doorbell tings shut behind me and I realise with new-found clarity that I know exactly where I am. I’m home. It’s not going to be a great day but it’ll be a better one, which is a start. Besides I have things to do - chocolate to buy, a jacket to launder, and a needle to thread.

Write what you know
Paint what you see
Yourself is much more int’resting
Than whoever you pretend to be

Sing what you hear
Move how you must
Look not to other’s favour
In yourself you may trust

Create and inspire
Astound and amuse
Yourself is an instrument
Go ahead - play what you choose!