desire keeps us busy
but does it make us happy
the way love or purpose do?
love and purpose are not desire
you cannot walk away from them
once they find you

When a man loves his wife he loves himself
I have heard it said
and I’ve read
of the interplay
of self love and love of another.
Can I love my brother, cherish my mother
if I do not accept myself?  
I’m still unclear which comes first or if this dilemma
circles and confounds
and will puzzle me forever.  

But I know with sureness when I love you
you soften and look at me with those big brown eyes
and sometimes I think I detect mist there
and when I run my fingers through your hair
I know your complexity and gentleness.
When I embrace you I know the fullness of your heart
that you loved me from the start
but even more now my precious one.

Maybe being a man this paradox of the circle of love
will never be mentally clear
but in my heart I know, my dear,
my love for you makes me me.

If you could read my mind
You could hear a thousand cries
Pleading for you to care just once more
If you could read my mind
You'd see a million papers
Filled with broken poetries
Of a love story which never happened
And so many unspoken words
If only you could read my mind
Maybe you would feel the pain ‘
my eyes failed to show you
and you refused to see
If you could read my mind
You’d see a heart that still yearns for you,
a heart bleeding in silent tears
If you could read my mind
You’d see a side of me l failed to show you
The eternity l always dreamed of
If you could read my mind
Maybe you’d understand how it feels to love
a person that can never be yours
If only you could read my mind
l wouldn’t be writing this

My mother kept a singing bird, just for herself
In the kitchen
By the door
In a cage.

She fed it herself
and talked to it
at 68.
What woman speaks to a bird,
perhaps one who knows
and understands.

All the peaks and trills,
the notes of song
she heard.
She knew its moods
and tunes, she sang along.
Their ritual of conversing
while washing up
and dry with dishcloth
or cooking
or baking her special recipe
apple pie.

Every night, she covered the cage
with a blanket
to keep warm the singing bird and
so the kitchen light would
not disturb
and in the morning,
she took it off again.

Then with silence broken
by welcome twitter,
she would tell
her grey and black wonder
of her plans whilst at chores.
When at elevenses,
she sat near the door
with hot tea and cookie,
she'd offer crumbs
stare ahead, a dreamy smile.

One day the bird died
and into her dishcloth,
she cried.