THE HOW OF WHY
(for Miss Kiss Kiss)

as we journey
drift from drift-
-wood to drift-wood

She asks me:

“Where do waves come from? ”

“Who is sky? ”
“How is green?
“Why is water? ”

I do my best(I
a mere father) to answer

but she is already
listening to a shell

tell of the vast sea
inside her.
SILVER STEPS

the moon
throws itself

into puddle after puddle
so that we may tiptoe

across on its back.

It bows as if it were
a Sir Walter Raleigh

before returning to the skies
to rhyme with June!

although now
it is deep mid-winter

& so the sliver steps
will freeze to mirrors

our breath
a cloud of laughter & words

dancing in front of
our smiles

we chatting in
speech balloons

this moment then
sculpted from perfection

you put a mittened
hand in mine

& we hum some song
we only half remember.
FIRST DAY

So that was it
was it?

Well...I
gave it a go but

no. . .NO!

It's not for me.
Boring...mostly.

When I think of
the things I  could be

doing
the sun trapped  in a window

the sky and birds
calling me to come and play.

School was for fools.
I only learnt that I didn't like it.

But you can't say I
didn't try.

What....what I gotta
go again tomorrow.

You kidding me!
I have a full time job

just being me!

No that's all!
I'm gonna go and

kick a ball
chase a butterfly

the important things
in life.
KISSING FOR THE MOON

Full moon in Sorrento
witnessing our kiss

amazed(envious)        
of this...our human love

and the power
of it

Trying to shed some light
on the secrets

our hands
tell
each other's bodies.

The moon muses
to itself

loud enough
for us to overhear:

'****! I wish I
could do that! '

Shine on moon...shine on!

We'll kiss for you!
WRITING THE SILENCE

scratching at the silence
the pen's nib spreads the word
the empty page now overcrowded

the clink of an inkwell
the pen drinks its fill
word chases word

the pen drunk with words
blots the page
the poet curses

now the pen stops
to think. . .
before creating the next word

the candle fearlessly
standing up to the darkness
at last the last full stop

his head
rests upon his words
the candle loses its fight

in the morning
his words line up
for his inspection

his words
once only ink
dance in his mouth

he repeats them
to the walls...the furniture
anything that will listen

his thought
once invisible even to himself
now parades across the page

outside the world is
waking up
the dawn yawns

". . .these are my beloved words
in whom I am well pleased. . ."
his face smiles back from the mirror
BLEAK HOUSE

bride and groom figures
that smiled from their wedding cake
kept still in attic
groom’s lost his head...bride broken
mirroring their own marriage  

NO EXPECTATIONS

a tailor’s dummy
wears now her old wedding dress
like Miss Havisham
cobwebbed in attic...candle
throwing light on past...love lost.
XMAS MARKS THE SPOT

I don't
(normally)
do this

you understand
but I am

staring at her
chest

in particular
where her ample *******

meet in a more than ample
cleavage.

Did not this
awesome architecture

of female flesh this
confluence of mammaries

just go
...tweet?

Yes...there
it is

for all to see
in a daring low-cut top

a robin redbreast
in her cleavage

making all who see it
...smile.

A tiny broken
robin

with an injured wing
(poor thing)

nestling between
her *******

(well it is
Christmas after all) .

She feeds it
every hour

with a tiny
dropper

as it nestles
snuggly.

'Peep...peep! '
it pipes up

every so
often.

Come Christmas
she gives it

the gift
of its

freedom

nothing but
blue skies

all day long
it returns

to its
human

as if it were
a living

Christmas card.
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