As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.

take.
it.



its all I have,
these words.
and I put these
words to paper,
but they are circling,
the garbage chute in my mind,
words I throw your way every time.

It was bonfires till the morning,
I wrapped up in the paleness of your skin,
and the embers darkening,
and camping in your backyard,
with you hands wrapped around me,
like you were falling,
but it wasn't you darling
I was the one falling,
into tenderness in sickness,
weakness attached to health,
and the regret of you existence,
married to the wealth of my emotions,
pressed tight between us,
was the seed of all my hope.

take it back.

The book of life is
so brief and once a page is read
all but love is dead
and her love is my guiding light
that is revealed to me
in the darkest of nights
and it reminds me
of those happy and loving times
about which I write rhymes.

I close my eyes just
for a moment and the moments
gone and all of my dreams
pass before my eyes a curiosity
and I realize that all or most
of the past hurt and pain
will eventually fade away
and be gone someday
but I still have to wonder why
we all have to live and
die .

She came to me
almost like a dream
this beautiful lady with thoughts
just for me which
sets my spirits free
and I no longer let evening
get me down now
that she is around.

In my book of life
so many pages read and all
of them are gone
and all but love is dead
and I know how loveless
life can sometimes be
as shadows followed me
and the night wouldn't
set me free but now
that her love is here
I am free because
I love her so
and to me she is
so dear.        
                                           Jon York             2013

Which do you prefer, Haunted Girl-
the city street sidewalk churned
up by heel and brogue
or,
the sweet-talk waves of home?

Settle in the sand while fingers
meld and touch the palms of hands,
let the hour glass beach pass
time between our toes,
have an appetite for shallow
dives amongst wave-tip whites;
whipped up by swell’s whisk,
stare until we sing for the dead men,
fire flares of affection in the form of kisses!
use a tool to sketch our future floor plan,
comment upon the Moroccan oil hair tan,
watch that man trace the coast of France upon his wife’s thigh;
hear her cry as he reaches Cherbourg,
talk of Vienna flagship stores:
forerunner fashion you make look lace,
mention the trees and the shipwrecks,
past relationship breakups and upcoming commitments,
describe, in detail, what you hope to happen
and what happens to that hope.

Fly back home.

I have often wondered why
If aliens truly do exist
Why don't they just
Drop by.

But then I look around me
At the scrabbling,babblings of those on the boundary
And I see
Why.

The reason that aliens don't drop from the sky
Is not because they're so very shy
It's because we're all full of it
In the pit of our own making
Taking what we can
What kind of man or alien would stop by and see
We,
Who are callous,indifferent and greedy
I do not think that anyone wants to see
Anything that needy.

So we'll stay alone
Yet the universe is burning with
Species that are learning
It all.

And even I fall into the trap
Calling Aliens,species
Is just krap.
That might be why
Aliens do not call in
And instead
Wave
Goodbye.

I want to breach the walls or knock them down
Get out of here
Ride into town
And get wasted.

They say that once you tasted just a bit
The fuse is lit
That being so
Then I'm on fire.
Dire consequences shall arise
But I got moody in my eyes and I'm alight.

Can't fight this feeling,reeling
Off the floor
Out the door
I'm not staying any more
Not slowing down
Going to town
Stop me if you dare.
Stop me,
Do you care?

The candle burns
Both ends are turned against the flame
Nothing would,could stay the same
In this frame of mind
Lined and pinned within the bind of kind of
Self destruct.
Looks like I lucked out or in.

If you've never been how can you say
Right or wrong
My life,my day
My way may not be de rigueur
Is that fair
Does it matter
Will it shatter any dreams
In these unconscious streams of constancy
I wait to see
Who I will be
Tomorrow.

SOMETIMES a child's voice crying on the street
Comes winging like an arrow through the wind
To pierce my breast with you, my baby, and
My pen is weak, and all my thinking dreams
Are mist of yearning for the touch of you.