this missive of love
scrawled upon the ether
little seeds like mustard or dandelion
spread upon the wind hoping above hope
to find landfall in hearts cracked asunder

this missive of love
humble but true
as love is and always should be
needs love too grow strong and big

it may not be much
but if added to
will compound upon itself
stand tall and become not shy
this missive of love must come
from both you and I
it must not be scared to whisper it's name
to those broken, shattered,
or under great strain

this missive of love, should be
like rain to parched ground
this missive of love should
be able to speak all languages
go all place, be scared not
of religion or races
should not hide it's face
nor be proud, but always,
always allow grace and time
to be it's partners

this missive of love is easy to write of
but the hardest of all to partake of
but it is now needed more and more
by those who have hearts burdened
and torn by the actions of zealots,
maddened and inflamed... men
and women who know not
this missive's name

this missive is my response
to this horror,this shame
this blight upon the world
in varying God's name

so as I sit and watch the sun rise
I send out this missive
to those that suffer
and those that grieve
to those that are so weary
that they wish only to leave
to those who seemingly stand alone
and those whose voices cry into the night
to men and women weeping this night
and to those who see no end to their plight

I send love and forgiveness
the ability to see,
the goodin the world
I send  the ability to  just be...

from this heart full of kindness
I send compassion and grace
I send hope and the stubborness
required to look this world
in it's face and see not the hurt
the grime, the commonplace
but to look beyond and see
the good, the beautiful, the need
for us, to grow the seeds of greatness

this missive of love, is small
and may if ignored
make no difference at all
but if taken in and given space
it may well be a fresh start
a turning of degrees
toward the world as a better place
the ideology is lofty and illogical
but let us try here at the coal face
to change the axis from hate to love

this patron
no longer exsists

well this is news
to me

i just returned some
overdue books

and wish to borrow more

but nope, not me
I no longer exsist

that must mean
I need not buy
those lambshanks
for tea

Not pay those bills
teeter tottering  on
the verge of overedue

no need to be pleasent
to any one, especially
not you

Rude lady, new
to the system
who has coldly
informed me
of my demise

Who states with
disinterest and haught
in her spectacled eyes
You must not have
borrowed for
the past three years
You no longer exsist
this she did insist
even as I pointed out
I had returned books
only three days overdue
Even as other librarians
stopped to chat, knowing
my name, recommending
new books, telling me gossip
about this and that....

This patron does not exsist
it cannot be true, it is not a glitch
this patron is a patron
through and through
I left them to figure out
the mystery, I did not pout
or get out of sorts and a little blue
I said I would come back Monday
that is if over the weekend
I do not simply fade away

sometimes, life is suprising....
the orchid I left to die of loneliness
has put forth a new shoot and seeks
the sunshine from the dusty window

my brother's daughter
has taken up residence
in the nannexe and
is exuberantlu adventurous
next weekend she jumps
from a plane, strapped
to a stranger...
this lifestyle is of course
my fault....

my mother enjoys having
her knees massagd by
the big muscle bound attendant
and flirts outrageously with him
(don't have the heart to tell her
he is gay..... a lot of the older women at
the residence also flirt, he takes it all with a
gentle smile)

the tuxedo devon rex has
taken to sleeping in the wok
sometimes with the purlioned
sock stash of the day...

one of the academics, a geologist
a gentle quiet man, steady as they come,
stripped naked before dancing
the charleston in the quad
....he is now under care

as I said sometimes life is suprising
sometimes a little sad

Manchester weeping
inconceivable losses
for a madman's game

small shy smiles
laughter hidden
behind hands

a brief hesitant touch
turning into  a caress

watching as they walk away
not watching as they return

hiding heartbeats
by moving quickly
just out of reach

i remember young love

small touches
with great meanings
coded messages in small smiles
laughing out loud mouth wide
when spooning is its own pleasure

holding hands and tracing scars
saying i love  you, hearing I love you
as part of everyday conversations
learning to love through hateful times
knowing you can break but will not shatter
knowing the pleasure of knowing their pleasure
finding thousands of ways to create love
working through the boring bits
knowing the others heartbeat by rote
watching them walk away, welcoming them back

this is my season of middle aged  love

regret sometimes whispers
in a soft oiled voice, that meanders
through the mind, finding the raw
places of  guilt

those fires  that become embers
by time and studied ignorance
and blows soft worded memories
giving oxygen to cinders, that light
the night like cane fires, all smoke
and  the madly rushing things
that race before the fire
scream their  torror and fear and hate
as they blindly follow the exodus
into the light, into the short grass,
tarmac pavement, open grave
that is waiting....there they either
stop transfixed or continue pellmell
onwards...the fire roars behind them
they have no place but out
there is no control, there is no
measure thought or reticence
there is action, and smoke and grime

and a sweet smell, that is sickening
yet like candy, and campfires

I hate it when I  hear the slickoiled
voice of regret in my head...
for I know the conflagration follows

the lazy boy recliner
a soft green suede
the colour reminiscent
of hay grass a day or so
after cutting

rubbed to a shine
on the armrest grips
stil peachfluff soft
at the back

her place of comfort and rest
her throne after a hard day
her craft nook, library
and front row seat to
film and sporting events

it was a gift given by
three grateful children
on her retirement
after years as a single parent
working eight hour days
and then coming home to mother
three unruly creative, bickering children
it was a thank you for so many things

all her grandchildren have been
told stories, sung to, snuggled, loved
in that old lazy boy.....
the oldest is now  twenty five

it has her smell of lanolin and roses
apple shampoo and eucalyptus  drops
peppermint knee rub....it has been imbued
with these scents and the memories that they carry

it is of no use now, she has gone upmarket,
in the nursing home she has a tapestry lift chair
that helps her sit and stand, it smells of antiseptic spray

I cannot bear to part with the old green lazy boy
it has too much of my mother in it's seams
somedays there is more of her is in that old chair
than there is in the woman that sits in the tapestry one

for now green  chair sits in my office, gathering books