If love is not but a dream
Than I am just an essence
To occupy unneeded space
Never to feel the warmth
Of my soul embraced

In the vision of love
My very being shudders
An orchestral muse
Intervened by an abruptly
Dissonant key

The crimson on your petal has lost its aesthetic appeal,
Once smoothly textured, you’ve become prickly,
One touch that could make medicine ill,
Bloom they say like the flower you are,
Regressing back to a seed only dilutes your potential by far,
If you were a planet, you would be called Venus the reluctant star,
What happened to the passion that runs skin deep in your hue?  
Your thorns express the type of painful beauty,
Only those that are admired from afar can do.

Indeed the light that shined on your peers,
Will find its time to shine on you,
But patience is only a virtue if the outcome flourishes,
Into the type of majestic beauty,
Only a great late bloomer can do.

I'm in love with a certain type of mess.
The idea of living your life on the run for the fun of it yet you are securely stable.
Weird enough that I am still drowning myself in my own insecurities.

*Oh, what a mess I am!

Tell me a story.

Of two young people,
a nondescript guy and girl,
crossing paths yet again for only a short time.

Tell me a story
where he found a reason to stop
and look, really look,
before cautiously reaching out.

And she,
in search of that recognition
that once came with glances in the mirror,
found what she was looking for
and even more than that.

Tell me a story
of infinite blue eyed stares,
interlocked fingers,
midnight embraces
and rainfall on locked lips.

Of a stack of scribbled notes
stored on the stand next to the bed
and so many secretive smiles,

the calming of a storm
and a home, finally,
a home within encircled arms.

Of bringing to life
the fire inside
that had for years been nothing
but submissive embers,

of lives gone from a simple
Hello
to I miss you; don't let go.

Where he taught her to love
first herself,
and then another.

Tell me a story
of happiness
that has no ending.

Tell me the story of us.

Lemon tree very pretty
it was a summer night many years ago
woke, thought I heard the whimpering
of a baby, thought it was a dream,
Woke up again my wife was not there
by my side but in the garden where she
had made a hole under a lemon tree
She put what looked like a shoebox in
the hole filled it in and placed stones
on top of her buried secret. Next day she
didn't get up stayed in bed for days and
I looked after her but said nothing.
When she got up she looked slimmer
and took up jogging to stay slim.
The lemon tree grew too I got a man to
chop it down but left its root, she got
upset loved this tree and when unseen
wept. I used to long for her to tell me her
secret, but not now with the tree gone
I do not care to know.

•

                            I love him more than my lips could say,


More than my mind could think,


                                                        ­       More than my body could act,


                             More than my heart could love,


              And more than my life could live..........






                                           ­     with love




                                                   © Earl Jane
                                                    ♥ E.J.C.S.

The Bus Trip
We are driving to Cascais on Sunday my wife wants to take
the bus she thinks we are too old to drive 300 miles.
On the bus, you might risk sitting by someone who can't afford
water or soap that is a low grade working person on his way to
use a ***** and whatever to build a trench that keeps the water
away when it is raining

I'm  a tonic water socialist and read the Guardian, crystal glasses
and a sneaky *** on the loo. To meet a proper working class person
would shatter my illusion and bring back a memory of my father last time
I saw him it was on a bus and he was drunk.
I will drive- anyway- not long from now I will not be able to they are
putting up obstacles to stop us old ones driving

The Street Cleaner
He is not a lucky man, but he is happy but one day he won on a lottery ticket,
not a not a big sum of money but enough to by wheelbarrow got permission
from the local council to keep the town's streets clean.  Happy, telling himself
he was self- employed and could sleep till nine in the morn  if he wanted to.
A busy bee a busy bee he was till he collided with Mercedes was taken to court
and his wheelbarrow was confiscated to pay for the damage. He had a bike and
got a local garage to put a two- wheel contraption to fasten to his bike, the town
got rid of its trash again until an officious policeman asked him if he had a licence
for this he didn't and it was confiscated. Now he had a jute sack slung on his proud
shoulders and a walking stick with a nail attached, a weapon a police officer said
  he was carrying a weapon in public and he was prosecuted.  He didn't show up
to the hearing and when the law came around, he hung from a rafter sometimes
even serious optimists give up and with no cleaner the town sank into misery,
plagued by vermin the population fled, a town given into paper napkins pizza boxes
and burger wrappers and the poor who had nowhere to go. And if this reflects
the life of a typical inner city of our English speaking world it is purely incidental.

Time passes really quickly and marks will show on our bodies but our souls,

Our timeless souls will stay the same.

They will smile at every nice memory

An remember all the good times but also the dark,

Dark memories that changed us deep inside,

Shook our world and crushed our beautiful hearts.

But they won’t be tamed, because they know

That everything passes and problems will go,

Only leaving some scars that in time might grow,

But the scars are important in our passing life,

They show imperfections and struggles and cries.

They teach you a lesson and show you the way

You have to fallow to have a better day.

Daily upon the screen
I seeith young men
Sent off to war;
As tis I seeith the greedy men
Getting rich from them
As tis I thinkest,
What for?



CONTROL.......



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry