Passed  a  neglected  garden  of  late.
It  seemed  in  quite  a ­­ sorry  state.
Some  men  came  to  make  some  notes.
But  seem­ed  to  give  it  little  thought.
Up  on  high  the  grasses  gr­ow.
Beneath  the  windows  row  by  row.
The  other  plants  just­ ­ cry  with  pain.
I  guess  we'll  never  grow  again.
They  ha­ve­  taken  up  our  space  on  the  ground
Like  an  advancing  ­army  I'll  be  bound.
They  are  taking  our  water  Oh  my.
As ­ they  journey  to  the  sky.
Perhaps  it  soon will  be  resolved.­
And  peace  will  reign.
Once again

Keith  Wilson    Windermere.  UK.  2016­.

Come to me with tears, my eyes have cried.
Laugh until you hurt, I've been that manic.
Deceive me if you can, I know the lies
we tell ourselves in fear. I will not panic.
Pound my chest in anger, feel my strength;
know I know your pain, yet do not feel it.
Tell me of your breaking heart at length;
words absorbed and heard the salve to heal it.
We together know we can survive;
after all, we'd chosen different roads and
gone our separate ways just to arrive
in time to hold up one another's loads.
You think you weigh me down, yet do not see
my burden's lighter when you lean on me.

you are the wishes you never
told anyone before,
frankly there's a god who agrees
with you and there's one who doesn't

and the world and the souls
that walks around it

and the time won't stop

and departures never arrives

and the promises never
dared to expose themselves

and the hopes and dreams
can only be seen on t.v.

and the happiest people are
those who doesn't deserve it

and weddings are paid for

and families and its
relatives never had gatherings

and the churches started
to appear in different genres

and the childhood memories
were as colorless as an
untouched coloring book

you're never the first one
to know how
quite awful things
have been

for all of what you've been
waking up for is all
a mad reality,
an impostor of what
you went up against.

let's clean up
this canvass
shall we?

A truth derived
out of the last armful of days:
“the heart just don’t quit.”
Despite the whole of it,
I stop dreaming each morning
to the beat of my own—
a soft, rhythmic reminder
that I’m still here;
still here
with breath to waste
if I wish.

One more same same morning.
Ah, but there are perks to poetry.

A flick of imagination and I am gone
to a warm country, green, with beaches
and castles and four poster beds
in one of which I am just now
waking to a vision of a lovely lass,
ready for a dash of dawn plunder,
to open a day of azure skies and heat.

In some ways, poetry doesn’t pay well,
but in others, it can make you rich indeed.

Three months ago you said I was your sunlight, but today I saw you put your hand over your eyes to block the sun

The silence says so much.
Nothingness scratching at
my stream of consciousness.

Valued for the vacuum
that ***** the soul
from the bottom of my shoes
giving me sapphire shades
of sorrow,

Velvet and suede
silk stalkings
that float, fading away,
as I dream of filling the silence
with love,

But like always
there is no one there.

a sign from you
and I stop
a word from you
and I smile
a gaze from you
and I tremble
a caress from you
and I melt
Liquid ahead of you
you're all colors in one
you're  my compass
you're my center of gravity
you're my nirvana
when you're there
everything
is intense
every color is vivid
every sound is shrill
the sky is infinite
the green is more green
everything is easier
everything finds its own place
nothing  is impossible
you're the best of me
without you
everything is flat
the music in me
turns off
disorder and impatience
mark
the faint gust of life
gliding beside me
without being able to brush me
a slow
ticking bottom
accompanies the wait to
the prelude
the symphony of music
and perceptions
of your return
and everything
can start again
and I can fly

Morning has broken
but she has not
it had been a long night
sinister fraught
the stars were cut
in lacerations of lace
          stains of tears
                      mark trails
                   on her face
mascara in circles
mocking panda eyes
multiple moments
of almost self-demise
wrists bound to
          sadness, heart
trussed to trust
pain from crumbling
illusions, plus
that constant,
          searing lust
Now, on the floor,
lying face down
in what seemed
              like blood,
she starts to
                 move around,
as realization pours over
in a thick, viscous flood:
She can move her arms;
for they were not
                really bound
That gag in her mouth?
it has dissolved into sound
The sound of her voice
as she gets up
        from the floor
opens the window
bringing light
            to the fore
guttural noises
escape deep
                 from her throat
and before she
knows it, the
room starts to float
furniture circling
as the energy takes
        and she lets in the air
             fresh as new fate
her cuts balmed over
         winds whipping up her hair
marks from taut ropes
smoothing over to bare
and the light bursts in
          in a blast, in a whoosh
like bursts of starlight
cutting in with a push
they seep into shadows
pulsing over the dark
the howling rescinds
          in an explosion of sparks
blocks of pain that held
her chained
are knocked over
and the lightstorm
                keeps coming
her inner percussion
just doesn't stop drumming
      And as she flies through that window
and unhinges the door
            from its frame
freedom
            is now hers
            forever to claim