I am writing to you from a
park bench in Amsterdam
there is a gentle breeze
of rest-fullness
the cherry trees are in
full bloom
I look for you
in every pretty face
I look for you in the
mannerisms of strangers
I look for you in the
architecture of amazement
I think of you
between the sidewalk
and every step
I hold you in my mind
like a memory of
something precious
I almost found you as the
sun set the sky on fire
in Barcelona
but you know
almost is never sweet
I will find you
before I unveil this
madness of my wandering
I miss you
even when I sleep …
Clay.M

I don’t need this
anymore than you do
I’ve taken all that I
can hold
all that I could
hope for
I wish that I could
breathe through
all this city smoke
all these broken hearts
all these silent stars
all these neon lights
shining so lonely and
blue just for you
now I’m tired of the lies
and I’m tired of the truth
now everything golden
has gone
I don’t believe this
even though it’s true
I saw you smile and it
made me smile too
now I curse all the rain
and all the flowers
that bloom
tell me why do they
die so soon
now I’m tired of
the lies
and I’m tired of
the truth
now everything
golden has gone …
Clay.M

Now why am I not living in the You Essay so we could get together and have coffee, say,
and really dig down deep in order to discuss the reason we are living in this universe?

Instead I'm left bereft on this side of the world - a harder place to live, now that my love lies cold.
My arms are empty, it's too hard to start anew - unless, of course, I find another heart that's true.

So in your search for meaning, if you come across the great Creator who designed this universe,
please ask Him to remember me and send someone to keep me company 'til this earthly life is done.

For in the end, as we each close our eyes in death and walk into eternity with final breath,
we'll find the only memory that's left to prove we lived at all, was held in someone else's love.

Their thoughts of us live on, their telling of our tale will guard our triumphs, not the places where we fail.

Oh, wondrous ******* made of prawn
you make my sense reel
My knees grow weak, my tongue hangs out
your seafood touch to feel.

How longingly my taste buds crave
your prawny, crispy cling
See how they seek most anxiously
the taste that makes them sing.

Not quite of lobster, not quite crab
elusive is your flavour
The crunch that locks onto my tongue
then melts, is one to savor.

All locked in light deliciousness,
your taste just makes me *****
and tho' I can't describe it well
it's definitely prawny.

Let's play a game with good, hot oil
I'll pour some on your back
You must be male, I see you grow -
expanding with a  'crack'!

Come to me now - I crave your touch
You need to be in me
my longing is a raging fire
I love you utterly.

At what stage does a poem become a short story? How many words can I squander or squash to fit a category?  
I think I know how to tell the difference between prose and doggerel but the rhythms change as pictures in my mind morph into another kind and thumb their nose at boundaries and realign themselves to squeeze just one more nuance in the theme - a poet's heavenly hell.

© 2017

It's dark outside now,  darling - tread carefully as you go.
That pallid crescent in the sky will soon be gone and so
make haste. Don't linger in the shadows.....

Jan 2019 © Emmie van Duren

The Race That Stops A Nation is an exaggeration promoters love to trumpet out - but it’s imagination. ©