On the far horizon of my mind, suddenly it appears
on the black and white wings of silence
more as a sweep of colors, mixed and dabbed
to create a rhapsody, resonance, unintentional,
nothing other than cajoling out a feeling, so tender
vaguely in the making in my psyche.

the seeds are mysteriously sown, so deep
from a sight, a sound, a feeling or an emotion that touched,
this heart is a lyre; love, longing, desire or separation
makes me weak, strongly feel about,weep my heart out or yell

heart yearns to sing  on every experience, for which I owe
to this world, some times green with pristine life
often dry like falling leaves, making everything including future look ****,
I am the canvas, experience, heart break felt, the poem is all about me,
what you fill and drink is the cup full of tears, here see my blood-
copiously flowing from the wound, inflicted by my merciless life.

Lips gently brush
against each other.
Their fresh moist
softness hot, yielding.
Tongues touch, executing
deft tantalising flicks.
A sensuous tease
before delving deeper.
Searching, probing, lips
pressing, passion flaring.
Hearts melting, spirits
soaring, rushing away.
Then suddenly, it's over
More than physical contact.
A more subtle, mental kiss.
Our fingers connect
briefly on parting.
Lingering slightly, and
I speculatively wonder.
Were our minds
in perfect synchronicity?
Or is there truly,
only one mind?
Such uncertainies arise,
with mental kissing.

© Paul Chafer 2014

On a cold winter’s night,
The ground white with snow,
Laura thought of a friend,
She lost so long, long ago.

Through her bedroom window,
Gazing longingly at the sky,
She wished upon the stars,
For a carpet that could fly.

If she owned such a carpet,
Perhaps, for a little while,
She would make a journey,
Travelling mile after mile.

Watched by moon and stars,
She would fly far, far away,
To visit her long lost friend,
It would be such a special day.

Laura’s thoughts escaped,
As on the carpet she flew,
And through make-belief
She made her wish come true.

On a cold winter’s night,
The ground white with snow,
Laura thought of a friend,
She lost so long, long ago.

© Paul Chafer 2014

And now there's a gap where the last eight hours should hang
sitting in a hospital bed looking at my boss across the way
arms crossed, thumbing his mustache like cleaning a brush
He says, "Forgive us, but we had your mouth reconstructed"
"As well as your wounds healed. We didn't think you'd mind."
I say, "I don't mind. I don't like liquid diets, anyway."
Why does it
hurt
so
much?
No work for
me
for
now.
He tells me I'm dying and that I'm strung out too far!
Tells me I'm putting too much in to what turns to scar.
Take some time off he says and give myself a chance.
Forgotten for so long to grin and ask myself to dance.
So I say, so say
you, and I'll try
but I'm fine.

And now there's a plan unfolding without my direct discretion
I can feel strings somewhere above as they're pulled softly
I sleep on the train after dressing up doll-like at home
Makeup and suicide tools wrapped around my curves in laughing walls
A women in red locks is taunting me from inside her ward, so familiar
"I should never have let you go," I say as I'm approaching
"I could have found you out," I say but she laughs once more
And sets herself on fire
Nothing but ash before me just out of reach
The dust swirling
Motes of adolescence tickling my fingertips
Why does it
hurt
so
much?
Waking I can't
place
her
face.
Arrive at The Roxy. Beneath her neon sign I absorb
cold rain in a way that makes my spine quake.
And inside the lobby, through my boots, I feel the floor
erupting from the music just through the doors.
Why do I come here?
Knowing there's nothing.
I'm nothing.

No, please, not again,
Not the ******* Block,
Think I’m about to cry,
A grown man, weeping,
So unreal, sad, even.

An occupational hazard,
Finding the Block, lurking,
The unforgiving, ******* Block,
Visited by all worth their salt,
Dreaded by writers, loathed.

An empty well, bone dry,
The Block, mocking, malicious,
Laughing in the shadows,
Shifting within deeper shadows,
Growing, so very strong.

It cannot be mastered,
Not now, not ever,
Now you know it exists,
Grasp the pen, tap keys,
You must fight!

Ignore the jeering,
Conquer fears first;
Then, try writing, just write,
Summon courage, dry your eyes,
Then slay the ******* Block.

© Paul Chafer 2014

Something that always seems so welcoming,
But has the bedside manner of an old hag.
Death,
Where is your southern hospitality?
Did you leave it back home,
Were you take your hostages,
Heaven or hell?
You come in a long black cloak,
A face masked by shadows,
Shadows that come from no where,
Nothing to cast them.
You crawl on the walls,
And on the ceiling.
You sit in the upper right corner.
You hide among the trees as your victim drives along the road,
And then...
Crash,
Another one added to your collection.
You're the monster under the bed,
The thing that children fear,
You **** the youth from them.
I have seen you many times.
Without question,
I'm sure its you.
With each time,
I prepare to say goodbye.
But then something changes,
There's a man...
I dont see him often,
Only on special occasions,
And even then,
Just briefly.
I see him nod to me on the side of the road,
Or give me a thumbs up when I walking down the street.
I see you,
Then I see him,
And then you're gone.
But only to return again.
Its not my time now,
But one day it will be.
One day I will see you,
And no longer see that man,
And then that will be the end.
It will be my time.
Something that happens to every person,
But not everyone chooses to accept.