Little boats bob
Big boats glide
There's life in the mud
An ancient church
And a pub on the other side

Wild flowers bloom in the sun
Protected by the churchyard wall
Inside rows of box pews facing East
Well maintained at least

Oddly laying at the back
A sarcophagus carved in stone
No doubt a gardener
Would value as a planter

No one comes these days she says
Pouring water in the font
Flowers ready
Only people such as us

Satisfied we sacrifice a coin
Pop it in the slot
Walk back past the tower round
The congregation underground
Through the lilting seabird song to find
Ham egg and chips and a drink
Just to wet the lips
It's the Summer time

You cried, when I read you poetry,
Soft sounds of weeping down the telephone,
It was not sad though, no, never that,
A kind of, unexpected happiness had blossomed,
Filling your mind with fragrant words, this is why,
You cried, when I read you poetry.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

You opened your mouth, and the words came out
Came right out from the heart, in the heart
Of the desert, and your heart was a desert
Deserted arid, you alone, never alone, forever
Lonely, only because the words came out
Out there, where they were
They were deaf, and blind, blinded from
The blinders they wore, deafened at war
With lies, lying to you, you... lied to, mute
Mutated, saying nothing, with
Nothing talking, speaking nothing so
No thing is spoken, to you, broken because
You opened your mouth, and the words came out

I am but willing prey to the wiles of the full grown moon.
She guards the night sky...
While I patrol these grounds...
Grieving over the seconds that have gone too soon.

I am a vessel... all emptied and barren.
what once was full,
now echoes faint
the glories of yesteryears.
Afloat still, adrift upon the currents... aimless and sullen.

I am a ghost... haunting no one but my own.
Immortalised...
Anchored...
to a body of mist and haze...
Occupying this space where worthy wind had once blown...

I am a beggar offering nothing but my open palms.
Hope etched tight
into my knackered knuckles
and calloused digits.
Please... take them in yours...
soothe them...
grant me your touch, your coveted balm.

it is intangible...

how I have tried
with high-falutin,
poetic words....
to describe
how I miss you..

but I never get it right...

I just miss,
the warp and weft,
we weaved between us,
those links of the fabric
of our lives.

small threads and large,
words and silences,
smiles and tears
oh how I miss, I miss...
simple touches, shared laughter,
a cup of tea and a seat in the
evening sun...

I miss, I miss, I miss...

I am not alone or lonely.
I am loved and love.

but... I have not become
reconciled to the absence
of you..... I don't think
I ever will...

I am resigned,
but oh how
I miss.....

Her beauty was not of the flesh but what was etched
Underneath for flesh can tell a thousand lies.

But what resides in bone never a distortion of what
Is meant, only true is engraved in cold white.

We wear a lie upon bone to hide the misgivings of
What is told and seen in needed truth.

If you want to know the truth of someone look, peal
Beneath and the bone never lies you only see truth.

i am the door...
that you leave slightly ajar
in your comings and goings
in an effort to find out who you are

i am the wall...
feel free to stare at me blankly
or if you have greater need
you're more than welcome to climb me

i am the table...
for you to lay it all out
or if you prefer to wine and dine
in this riddle of doubt

i am the drawer...
you hold all your secrets in
your poetry and diary
of who you now are and who you have been

i am the bed...
your afraid to peek underneath
but still with enough comfort
to give you your much needed sleep

i am the window...
that opens into your soul
telling you what you want
and what you don't want to know

i am the floor...
where it all gets swept
into that lonely corner
with the rest of your mess

Poet took a grandiose leap of faith,
   amid a big swig of moonbeams
   dabbling toes beyond starry galaxies
Milky Way spun in translations
    Pluto still looked perplexed,
Big Dipper gave a smart **** grimace
    wondering what the hell was
   going on 'neath the stratosphere
   when human beings can't keep
       their heads above ambiguous clouds
            feet  firmly planted on ground,
delving lofty heaven's bliss
     escaping the wrath of hell's fire,
  aggrandizing endless poesy that
absorbs sparks of a universal desire
        never phasing sun's obstinance,
   but, if you believe in poetry
      there's no telling where
        boundless skies will surrender**

...and the man in the moon tilted on his axis in a
    backward's spiral and unabashedly winked