I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

got to eat them as they darken
reddened ruby to black constant opal
berries will rot quickly if you don’t
or they’ll taste real gooey and wierdy
if you let the drupelets’ colors get
unsynchronized like summer and fall

...why am i telling you this?
because i learned that the hard way
and the days go away in the gleam
heavy showers and peak-a-boo sun
the east barely bracing for the storm
and the sweetness decaying like the leaves

There are infinite numbers of me

Running, existing, dreaming

Upon the predestined fabric of time

Yet there is only one of you

Of which

I seem to be fated

To gaze upon

Love helplessly

Never possess

And eventually

Lose completely


And lose you I did

What I never had


Yet the love itself

Was never lost


It was just always

There


Faithful as a child

Running wild and free


A distant

And endless green

Pasture


Praising

Chasing

Flower after flower


Without ever so much

As a touch


For fear of its withering


But mostly

Because it ever

Eludes me


Yet

How can I be

Forever everywhere


Except

Where you are to be?


There are infinite numbers of you

Running, existing, dreaming

Upon the everlasting Pasture

Of Love


Yet

There is only one of me


In time and in space

I might have passed you

Regretfully


But in Love

I believe

We're still destined

To meet

And

To be

Thinking it's always a Wednesday somewhere
but there's a place that I'd rather be and that's a Friday.

( and we all know about Crusoe, don't we )

early because I'm going to be strangled, there'll be no help from the wannabe crew, work ****** work, but what else can I do?
and anyway it keeps me occupied.

This carriage that carries me on the Jubilee is exceedingly quiet today, there's only the squeals from the knackered old wheels  
and the occasional whoosh from the doors.

I'm not complaining
( that'd be a first )

There's a tic-toc man with a beer in a can and a Timex on his wrist,
slightly ****** and it's only 05:39.

And a Harry Secombe lookalike who looks just like Harry Secombe.

Is it time to go home yet?

It's always nearly isn't it?
never fully.