Even though they were smaller than me
They made me feel very afraid
As they roamed the playground together,
With the smell of over-boiled cabbage and nicotine
Clinging to their clothes and hair,
Their small, hard hands and *****, sharp finger nails
Grabbing at the lapels of your blazer.

They had white dinner tickets for free school meals.
Our tickets were blue and cost a shilling.
They sat, bunched together, in the middle of row four,
And if you were moved to sit beside them,
Your friends pointed at you and laughed,
Like when you had just had your haircut,
Or you wore glasses for the first time.

Their uniforms were ragged, hand-knitted jumpers
And wellingtons, even in the summer.
When you had sweets they would corner you in the playground,
Demanding their tribute share.
And you always handed over the best of your sweets, because,
Even though they were smaller than me,
They made me feel very afraid.

Ink
blots
impossible
knots
testing the limits of
a circular drive
one hand on the wheel
the other copping a feel
of his passenger mate
dutifully nursing her neonate
foot goes down
to apply the break
fracturing fingers
is what it will take
to lessen
the voice
avoid
the slade
move
the mountain
tell me, don't floaters
eventually get flushed?

I never really liked poems.
Or maybe it's proper to say that I'm not a huge fan.

If it is a piece of music
There's always a chord missing
Wrong rhythm
A bad intonation.

It does not suffice
In describing the myriad of thoughts in my head.
It was always short in line.
Short in feelings.
Too romantic
Or not at all.

But I remember staring at the ceiling
Imagining your smile plastered in it
I started looking for you in poems
I started drafting one
I started describing every parts I could remember
I start loving one.

The sun wept marigold tears
  and we were too busy
   in the toil of our own grief

     to notice

     to pause

     to ask her why

nor did we bother
  to pay attention
   to the splitting seam
    in the sky
or how all the colors
  bleed that day

but Death in all her gentleness

   paused

sat quietly with the sun
  gently wiped the tears
   from her cheek
    held her hand
and waited while the sun
  mourned what needed
    to be mourned

then Death pulled a thread
  from the fabric of her robe
   and stitched the tearing seam
    in the sky

and then with all
  the bleeding colors
    painted a long overdue sunset
     on the never ending horizon

you’ve become nothing
but fire and wax and regrets.
you’ve become a cautionary tale,
a warning of loving too much too fast
you’ve become a memory
in a long list of lovers, of tragedies

you’ve become nothing
but ash and feathers and bone,
you’ve become a story,
a tale of boys who fell for suns
you’ve become a glimpse,
a moment of clarity that ends all too soon

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.