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it is a gift, the friend ship, the kiss

on each cheek with out avoidance.

it may seem continental, yet we are

dolgellau. it is a meeting place, yes,

near the church. there are similarities,

yet this is not a metaphor.

we met at ten, talked of family,

one hour led to two, and overstepped

the parking time.

later in the garden, i thought of you.

i cut the paths and thought of you too.

it is a gift.
 Aug 2019
Alfa
I fantasize about touching my thighs to your lips
when you whisper sing in my ear-
softly letting your hand dance on my back
while we lay in your bed listening to
2009 rock.
 Aug 2019
Cora
maybe someday
i won't be filled
with dread
after every choice
waiting to wake
in cold sweat
forced to hear that voice
that whispers
baby
don't pretend
you believe that
this can end
we'll trade old fears
for new fears
and bless new years
with fresh tears
that's just our way
 Aug 2019
Bummer
I guess writing didn't work.
I'm starting to see cobwebs collecting between the lines of your poems.
They're lost, buried in a library of millions upon millions of other peoples problems that are just written in different ways.
It's okay.
I understand why you have stopped.
At times I want to.
My poems feel like rants, not art.
My songs sound familiar, and not my own.
Maybe if I throw in a metaphor or two it will end up being loved.
It's a romance that's fading.
I have just as much guts to say I love you as I do to let go.
But I'll keep writing.
And I hope you keep reading.
Maybe one day I'll change you.
baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad
seems to me you caught on
**** quick

it is good to feel organised
in control
even though we are not
ultimately

naturally

yes have had company
now i miss it
am in transition

drinking tea

the thunderstorm
was grand i think
the pressure leaves
me with an headache

as does the politics
here
and
there

later than usual
which does not
matter today

it will tomorrow

early
 Aug 2019
touka
a feeling I can't name

as he exits, excellently;
as the ball rolls
and the moon hugs the tide

hand
hesitantly on the helve

the wonderment,
the idiot

who he's exchanged a few words with

from behind the dotted line
that I envision

the upswing of human fear
and tending to be naked in it

if one thing
if it was all my heart had really thought for,
aside from to be useful, in my adult years

do I get, also, for it to end well?

the way envisioned
to climb over the dotted line

the wonderment
at him
the idiot sits
twiddles her thumbs

sinks in and in

I must be a child
waiting to be pulled to the air

if it will never feel quite right to want
I'll wait until I am wanted

and if the moment never comes,
you did not write

yesterday.



that is fine.



i shall worry about you

guess you are busy

about the new job

your gainful employment



or worry

that you fell off your bike

hurt your typing finger (s)



or worry



that i got it wrong again

and

that you just

did not write

yesterday.
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