Dainty feet on the cold wooden floor ,
I shuffle across the boards quietly ,
wrapped in our sheet ,
The pups nails tinkering next to me .
He knows who im looking for .
Down the hallway,
Past our framed faces and memories.
I smell coffee .
I squint ; stepping into the sunlight
That floods our kitchen.
And there he is , like every morning .
Nose in a book, mug of coffee steaming
Next to him.
He smiles and slowly closes his book , grabbing the front of the sheet  and pulling me into his lap.
" you're a vision in white " .

What comes next?
A fusion with brain and internet? *** text.
descriptions of positions and inhibitions undone
crawling down the screen,
like  morse code across the sea
or an old computer reading cards, blurting out silent sentences
passing lights on the screen,
then gone
or the News crawl passing on the bottom of the TV
without the repeats
all in our imaginations
the touches, movements, even some sensations
the connection of  two biologies
two living breathing human beings,
much more complicated than simple machines

But this is the computer,
the technology star
that brought us fame and power and wealth
Now seems a bit in ill health.
A downward spiral,
like a old rock star, playing at a seedy corner bar:
the technology that sent a man to the moon
and fought the Soviets until their doom
the frightening technology
of my childhood years,
big computers creating bigger fears
and now being put to good use
as I have my fellow in a metaphorical noose
our fingers go across the keys
and send signals to each other's bodies
connected in imagination with mine
and it's frightening how it works to well
Almost like reality, I can barely tell
but then it's over and in the after glow
A thought taps me on the shoulder, tells me I should know
that in the end the bond with the human being
has evaporated like silent steam,
Not because we're mean
But because he's not there
but now I'm aware
of a peculiar new bond with my phone

Suddenly it is
Like the conversion
Of St Paul: the rain
Has stopped falling and

You feel that moment
Of dryness, that sweet
Second when the rain
Ceases hitting your

Face, when the wetness
On your brow (despite
The umbrella) stops
Running down your nose.

You stand still; take in
The sharp sight, the feel.
People still walking,
Carrying on, still

Going about their
Lives, stepping around
Or over not through
Puddles, thinking their

Thoughts, unaware the
Rainfall has come to
An end. You breathe in
The air, that after

Rain smell that stink of
Wet cloth, that sudden
Realization
You want to ***. You

Hold the umbrella
Over your dry head
Uncertain if the
Rainfall will come once

More and catch you out.
Father would allow
You to stomp through small
Puddles as a child,

But Mother would not,
She’d steer you around
Them with the calm
Carefulness of a

Saint, gripping your arm
As if you were in
Danger and about
To drown. Dead now, both

In their separate
Graves, separate as
They were in life, he
Just her husband, she

Just his woeful wife.
The rainfall is now
Returning, just a
Short reprieve, like a

Life between two deaths,
And the need to ***
Just as powerful,
The realization

Of being, the wet
And the clinging damp
Clothes, the sneaky wind,
The people passing,

And you still standing
There, breathing in the
After rain smell and
Raining again air.

Jeanette sits
in the class
music's played

Beethoven
sonata
Miss Graham

the teacher
at a grand
piano

thin wire framed
spectacles
her grey hair

in a bun
aged fingers
touching keys

many kids
in the class
sit bemused

others bored
out of brains
smile or smirk

but to her
sitting there
beside blonde

Angela
is transfixed
a new world

opens up
pretty much
like that kiss

stolen quick
by that boy
Benedict

on the field
after lunch
as she sat

all alone
Angela
had gone to

the crapper
(the wrong week
to sort out)

no reasons
were given
just that kiss

on her cheek
soft and damp
then he'd gone

leaving her
as one stung
by a bee

and she watched
as he went
towards school

and she sat
between worlds
old and new

balancing
her hormones
steering clear

of all those
dangerous
hidden rocks

Jeanette moves
to music
around her

her fingers
on the desk
like keyboard

pushing thoughts
of the kiss
from her mind

closing eyes
matching up
Benedict

inwardly
with passion
like one blind.

An ecstatic poet, conjured up a full moon night so special.
Pairs of lovers got drunk with moon's white wine, reveled,
danced all night along the sea washed sands in ebullient spirit
till they were completely exhausted,  slept there on the sand bed.
When dawn tiptoed, they transformed to lovebirds, away they flew,
did they want to get back to human lives; no one knows, even if they did-
wasn't possible, the poet that created them, in drunken stupor, had
already forgot the whole episode and was in a hurry for new conceptions.

In his own class
His ninety summers’ lens focus
On the fine print
To uncover the hidden tint!

All his peers long gone
He cheerfully carries on
In a way he isn’t mortal anymore
And death would never knock his door!

But for occasional drifts into past’s ember
He needs not much to remember
Except to pour over the thick bound book
Befitting his timeless wizened look!

In his nook on his lonely perch
He still isn’t tired of the search
For chancing upon that ultimate tint
Still baffling him in its blurring print!

You met her in a field
beyond her house
during summer recess
that last one

before you both left
school for good
you'd walked
from the big wooden gate

by hedgerows
where birds sang
and flew out
pass you

sky blue
as if Monet
had been at work
my mother thinks

we've been doing things
she said
things?
you said

you know what I mean
she said
a steam train
passed by

over by the far hedge
we have
you said
I know and you know

but I don't want her
thinking we have
Judy said
you frowned

the white
and grey smoke
from the train
puffed

into the sky
so it's a kind of
knowledge thing?
you said

who's to know
and who isn't?
some people matter
she said

especially her
I’ll never hear
the last of it
if she thinks

we have
the grass was dry
and the earth hard
your shoes had seen better days

so we're here
in a field
where she could
possibly see us

and you're worrying
that she thinks
we have done things?
Judy sighed

and looked back
at the house
surrounded by fields
she's probably watching now

she said
following our movement
you looked back too
hands in the pockets

of your blue jeans
has she binoculars?
you said
not that I know

Judy said
doesn't matter
she has eyes
like a hawk

how are you
going to convince
we haven’t
done things?

you asked
she looked away
from the house
and sat on the grass

with you following
she sat cross legged
pulling the skirt
over her knees

spoilsport
you said
shouldn't look
didn't get a chance

too slow
she said
getting old
you smiled

I’m 14 like you
if that's too old
I'm Monet's aunt
she laughed

this isn't
solving the problem
she said
there isn't a problem

you said
just a matter
of perception
or not

as the case
is meant to be
what do you mean?
she said

your mother thinks
we have
and we have
yet you want her

not to think that
you replied
yes that's right
Judy said

maybe she wants
to think that
you said
why should she?

Judy asked
maybe she doesn't trust me
you said
she doesn't

Judy said
but she should trust me
you nodded
I see what you mean

so she should trust you
not to do such things
even when you have?
you said

it's the thought
that counts
she said
she put her hands

each side of her
on the grass
you could see
her cleavage

where her
blouse buttons
gave a little
yes

you said
it's the thought
that counts
and the thoughts

hung around
your head
wishing it
had not been

a hay barn
but a cosy
warm bed
instead.

Fried brinjal rolled in flatbread
Her magic recipe of love homemade
What treasure they hold what charm unlocks
When sharp at two opens up lunchbox!

A sweet candy from the finest cheese
Made from cow milk a salivary bliss
I feel helpless and little can do
My belly when growls sharp at two!

I feel entranced in that magic hour
When smell green peas and cauliflower
She makes them fine rich butter spread
The toasted breads her love homemade!

She knows my bowel not makes it rich
Fine cut cucumber in soft sandwich
In all them I find her special brew
Of love homemade to be opened at two!

Though it’s never that I made her known
How sweetly relish her love homegrown
But when I open lunchbox at two
Wonder without her what I would do!