She's outside
the nurse said
getting
some sunshine

doctor's orders
so I went out
through the double doors
into the grassy area

outside the ward
Julie was sitting
in a chair
smoking

in a dressing gown
her hair pulled tight
in ponytail
getting some sunshine

I said
yes
got to be
a good girl

she said
get some sun
to my skin
I sat in a chair

beside her
took out
a cigarette
and lit up

how's it going?
I asked
cold and fed up
and wanting a fix

she said
but all I get
is a cigarette
and all this

get some sun
and fresh air stuff
she crossed her legs
her feet were naked

she'd painted
her nails red
I brought you
some cigarettes

and chocolate
I said
and laid them
on the small

white table
by her legs
thanks
she said

wish we could meet
at that cheap
hotel again
I fancy some ***

she inhaled deeply
and looked back
at the doors
of the ward

maybe next month
if they let you out
I said
they say I can't

go out
until I’ve kicked
the fix habit
she said

turning round
and gazing at me
hope they've fixed
the taps this time

she said
confused me
to turn on
the cold tap

to get hot
I smiled
she uncrossed her legs
and I saw

a glimpse of thigh
which hung and stayed
in the camera
of my eye.

Inside Burgos Cathedral
Miriam was in shorts
and tee-shirt
and I nearby

and a woman
next to her
said casa de Dios
Miriam said something

back in Spanish
and the woman
scowled at her
and moved away

muttering in Spanish
under her breath
what did she say?
I asked

Miriam said
the old bat
said this
was the house of God

and that I
was not dressed
correctly
I looked

at the woman
who was glaring
at Miriam
what did you

say to her?
I asked
I told her
go wash her *****

I nodded
and looked
at the glaring
Spanish dame

I spoke no Spanish
but whatever
the dame was muttering
didn't sound

like a blessing
I tried to focus
on the mass
the words(now

in Spanish not Latin)
Miriam folded
her arms
her eyes sharp

as pencils
her red hair
tight curls
smelling of sun oil

and scent
a guy in front
had his eyes closed
muttering a prayer

in Spanish
the priest
at the altar
was colourful

like a beetle
arms out stretched
Miriam whispered
I'll need a drink

after this
and something more
later in the tent
she smiled at me

her eyes bright
and alive
and mischievous
I had lost my way

in the mass
but the beetle priest
was lifting the host
Christ was present

and I bet
the old Spanish dame
was giving Him
the low down

on Miriam
but I knew
He'd understand
His love

was wide and deep
and Miriam and her promises
would have to wait
and keep.

Don't think
I’ll ever
get use to this:
your death,
your not being here,
the absence of you
in my chair,
sitting there,
silent,
with your
humorous grin.

I expect you
to come in
at your usual time,
on the usual days,
your hungry bear
walk, you searching
for food on table
and oven and fridge;
sitting watching TV
or some video,
playing games,
football crazy,
soft swearing
at the referee.

I can't believe
you've gone;
can't quite fix it
in my head,
the  hard fact
you're dead.

I see play over
and over
in my mind's eye,
that last talk,
you puffed
and unwell;
the mundane
conversation,
the minutes ticking by,
you seemingly
soon to go,
soon for the first time
to die.

Unanswered questions
remain
of who
and how
and why?

My love and I, shared the summer last year,
While Dragonflies stitched until the close of day,
I see her now, the fond memories so dear.

We both loved a lifetime without any fear,
From fragrant meadows our cares floated away,
My love and I, shared the summer last year.

Her pleasant laughter, I can still hear,
Threading the air with the scent of fresh hay,
I see her now, the fond memories so dear.

Why we drifted apart still remains unclear,
Did passion die when blue skies turned grey?
My love and I, shared the summer last year.

I embraced her soul, held it so near,
But already I sensed her slipping away,
I see her now, the fond memories so dear.

In stoic silence, I shed a single tear,
Resolved to keeping my sadness at bay,
My love and I, shared the summer last year,
I see her now, the fond memories so dear.

©Paul Chafer 2014

Another life existed for me,
Beyond time's blurry realm,
Sun-bleached woven threads,
Snapshots of memory, fading,
So slowly fading, hurting even,
Coloured fragments out of focus,
Tattered tapestries of deeds,
Billowing in my mind, teasing,
Blowing free, crumbling away,
Discarded now, so rarely seen,
Old rags in dusty halls of thought,
Time marches unceasingly onward,
Mocking our lives, our loves,
So uncaring, making dust of us all,
I could weep for her, for us,
How we loved, shared, enjoyed,
Just a girl, really; only a girl,
We were so young; back then,
Another life existed for me.

©Paul Chafer 2014

What names
shall we give
our children
when we get older?

Judy asked
as we walked
through the woods
behind the house

towards the lake
(as she called
the pond
in the woods)

I’m no good
with names
I said
you must

have some idea
what names to call
your children
I haven't got children

not yet but when
we're older you will
she said
the trees were

coming into leaf
the sun was straight overhead
birds were flying
from branch to branch

what if it's a girl?
she asked
I thought about
the middle spread picture

of the sports car
in the Eagle comic
I’d just pinned
to my bedroom wall

the parts number
and labelled
colourful
surely

you must have
a girl's name?
she asked
Leonore

I said
what kind of name
is that?
she said

I think it's in
that Beethoven opera
Miss Graham
made us listen to

during lessons
I said
I don't like it
Judy said

the car picture
was just one
of many I had
on my bedroom walls

I had one photograph
of Hayley Mills
in a frame
by my bed

I got it
from a magazine
on move-stars
what about Ruth?

she said
or Rebecca?
the path through the woods
was windy

there were bramble
on each side
how about Jezebel
I said

it has a certain
ring to it
don't like it
she said

gives off
a bad scene
we reached the fence
around the lake

and climbed over
she had on
that peasant
looking dress

flowered red and yellow
I caught a glimpse
of thigh
as she went over

you're not
taking it
seriously
she said

as we walked down
the grass towards
the water
sure I am

I said
I think Judy’s
a fine name
for a daughter.

i am made of...
thought...
ink and pen and paper... and so much more.
scribbled phrases on diner napkins.
post it notes stuck to walls.
scrawled doggerel in bathroom pens.
phrased ideology in lined notebooks.
spinnered words on lazerprinted A4.
scraps of inklings, on ripped butcher's bags and wrappings.
condolences in funeral books.
ideas capital lettered on cards,
pinned to cork boards.
epitaphs stonemasoned
into granite blocks.
fury arranged just so,
on parchment.
newsprinted with loose blurry, black ink on broadsheets
scribed by pointed stick on
firm wet sand.
notes on heavy cards, of love
and light bright shiny stuff.
discarded sentence startings, left crumpled, lost in a bin.
loss, written with red wine on white table cloth.
art, etched on vellum anciently old, suprisingly relevent.
tapped into tablets both stone
and techview.
blue and red markers squeaked onto white boards.
daubed on canvas with a fine sable brush.
tatttoo-ed upon ones flesh.
carved into wooden school desks.
pressed into moist clay by delicate fingernails.
marked so deeply upon a soul.
chalked to cement,
to stay for...
but a short season.
written for some very, (un)important reason.
courage to speak, sing, whisper, shout, cry, laugh, observe and ponder.
this is me....
i am a word written down.. any word, any word.
i am undeniable, desirable often incomplete
always open  always waiting
for some one...
......just like you ...
to open your heart let me in
to recognize a new start
to have a play, a scribble,
doodle, pen jive. to become
alive.... to thrive,
just begin with a single letter.....then another,
go on be brave...
..........grant me liberty....

Lizbeth holds
Benedict’s
father's bike

while sitting
on her own
waiting for

Benedict
to return
from the hedge

with bird's eggs
or the shells
of blackbirds

he had seen
once nest there
she is bored

she wants more
and other
things than this

bird watching
or looking
out for those

butterflies
she wants ***
not nature

study *****
Benedict
where are you?

she calls out
just coming
he replies

if only
she muses
watching bees

on flowers
the soft buzz
butterflies

going by
fluttering
Benedict

she calls out
where are you?
here I am

he replies
coming out
of a hedge

clutching blue
black speckled
eggshell bits

in his palm
look at that
fine eggshells

he says soft
she looks strained
her eyes scan

the eggshells
in his hand
is that it?

just eggshells​?
lucky find
he replies

tucking them
in the black
saddlebag

on the bike
she watches
his fingers

how gently
they arrange
the eggshells

in the bag
can we go
to that hut

on the Downs
that you found?
she asks him

he buckles up
the black bag
I guess so

he replies
it's not big
just an old

shepherd's hut
unused now
is it far?

she asks him
ten minutes
walk away

he replies
we can't ride​?
she asks him

too hilly
he replies
her lips pout

and she sighs
only way
he tells her

ok then
she replies
so they ride

to the foot
of the Downs
leaving their

two bicycles
by a tree
and walk up

and along
the pathway
between trees

he thinking
of a nest
he'd seen there

the last time
Robin's nest
he believes

she thinking
of hot ***
in the shed

on the floor
on the old
bath towel she'd

brought from home
she and he
all alone

Benedict
unaware
walks and sniffs

the fresh air
thinking of
possible

robin's eggs
and of them
getting there.

Your Manchester United
football shirt
hangs framed
on the wall:
Ole and number 20
show through the glass.

I remember
you wearing it,
your body
filling out the cloth,
giving life to it,
your name
and number
worn proud
amongst the family,
or out in the crowd.

Now your shirt
hangs there
silent and still
behind the glass.

I wonder if it
still retains
some aspect of you,
some particles
like sparkles
that remain long after
like memories residing
in the shirt's soul.

Your brother put it there,
sealed in the frame,
your number 20
and Ole
your shortened name,
out of love and grief,
wanting it
to always be
in sight, part of you,
inside, like a light
in the mind's
dark night.