I have been told that a love left untouched will never disappear; that because the corrosive oils from our fingertips have not dissolved its coloring, it will, theoretically, endure perpetually. This love, left in its shrink-wrap casing, looming over the heads of the meek and the caustic feels like a scarlet letter hidden behind the robe, a feeling so foul none are to know but, Oh, what if it begins to fester, there in the moist dark?

This worry had been sitting in my stomach, churning with the bile and swallowed blood, coming up acid in my throat; I could feel it radiating out. Thought: it must be nuclear, must be radioactive and glowing, eating through me one layer at a time, but love –this uranium longing– has a half-life.

When first the reaction began it boiled and popped like lye on skin, singed off my eyelids so I could not help but see it there. I found myself woozy from the fumes, a high I had never experienced before so I inhaled, let it torch my lungs and leave me gagging. My hair began to fall out. I was soggy from the chemotherapy, tried pumping this bitterness into my bloodstream to remove the evil that already existed there, unaware that they were the same entity. It could not survive on a diet of itself and obsession, and so it began waning.

An exponential decay, the intensity of this passion varying directly with the frequency of contact and inversely with time, yet it will never be gone, entirely. It will decrease incrementally every time I say good bye, every time I see scarred knuckles, every time I want and he does not. I have counted the days since the day I counted on him and he was accountable and the number is growing larger and getting more difficult to remember. I have scribbled it onto scraps of paper and it has only browned the edges, no longer burns all the way through, and this love –this radium affair– has been losing its toxicity.

The non-planet, poor Pluto,
Circling far out and forgotten,
I cast my thoughts around you,
Knowing you are like many here,
Too insignificant to be noticed,
And yet, still worthwhile, for sure.

I caress the cold of Neptune,
Her super speed winds whip by,
She has no thought for me, too busy,
As is her sister, Uranus, circling,
Unaware that I, or others, even exist,
Yet, we are made of the same stuff,
Stardust, so exotic, so varied; so us.

My thoughts come leaping back,
Arcing around the rings of Saturn,
Slipping between sparkling icy dust,
Navigating the dark reaching fingers,
Stretching impassively from their host,
Guiding my eye to the little moons,
Knowing that life might thrive there.

I somersault away to King Jupiter,
He used to wander, he battled hard,
Casting out the rogue gas giant,
Clearing the way for the rocky worlds,
Giving life to us all, before drifting back,
Cajoled by Saturn, his anger still rages,
The red spot storm churning, his moons,
Observing, as Jupiter takes on all comers.

And we, the rocky four, so grateful,
As Jupiter snaffles the debris, holds it,
Or hurls it away, so we live, we learn,
Our inner sisters too hot, brother Mars,
Too cold, for now, but one day, yes,
As we begin to bake, Mars awaits,
To welcome us for a million years, or so,
A blink of an eye, universally speaking,
But home has hope, hope offers life,
Unlike our unwanted distant cousin,
The non-planet, poor Pluto.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

Even at my age,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Languishing among towering clouds,
A lofty empire, lost kingdoms,
Perhaps a strange magical realm,
Thriving with dwarves and giants,
Maidens in towers awaiting rescue,
Where lone horse warriors wander,
Maybe observing us, far below.

Must be a poetic creative thing,
Or simply the child deep within,
Viewing through the eyes of the man,
Dreaming ancient days of long ago,
When the child yearned to be grown,
To know all there is to know,
Never appreciating escapism,
The chance to drift within time,
Ponder upon distant, aerial, worlds.

Or maybe I’m just a dreamer,
That and nothing more, hmm,
Telling myself, I am a poet,
A procrastinating creative spirit,
In love with the trappings of art,
The child asleep within wisdom,
Languishing among towering clouds,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Even at my age.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

His tales of a place he once called home, now reduced to ruins and smolder, carry a weight he has become accustomed to straining the muscles of his back against. He keeps postcards in his wallet, folded and creased in the center to the point of perforation, pulls them out when he is homesick or when anyone asks about his origins, always tucks them back into the pocket with more spite than he cares to portray. Most observers simply nod their head, "how beautiful it is," –was– "you're lucky to have been a part of it." He smiles, the genuine kind of smile that takes precise attention to detail and years of practice to counterfeit, says "I know." Some bold and curious or ignorant and inconsiderate listeners poke their furrowed brows into his upturned palms, ask him, "did you see the fire?" They want to know –must know– if he could smell the smoke from the next town over, if he could see the sky illuminated in the distance, the red hue seeping into the blue-black night, they want to know how big it was, a house fire or a holocaust, if he tried to put it out or if he stood idle, looked for faces in the flames, if it left anything but charred floorboards and fireproof safes, the combinations written on scraps of paper now insignificant. You can see him fuming from across the room, his face illuminated, the red hue dripping down his neck, his voice becomes victim, tries to keep it steady but you can see losses on his tongue, he trails off into silence, leaves nothing but stubbed toes and sentiments, "I'm sorry I asked." When he talks about the people he knows –knew– there, he always starts with a chuckle, a little grin as if something had just reminded him of them, they were all kids back then, his eyes turn child again while he talks about how they played in the storm drains and then he snaps them shut, remembers the cigarette butts, remembers the lighters they bought at the drug store, how they had loved to see things burn until they couldn't stop it. He talks about this place he used to call home, doesn't know what to call it anymore.

It was a lovely New York morning and the sun in the sky was shining
When, from up above in the clouds we all heard a horrid noisy whining,
And we looked up in the air to see a large silver plane flying by,
And the sun was glinting off its fuselage as it flew like a great metallic bird
                                                            ­               swiftly through the sky.

But then the plane made a change of course and headed right in our direction,
Pointing straight at the World Trade Centre (a double concrete *******),
And then the aircraft went into of one of the towers causing much dismay
And a terrible shock to all who saw this truly devastating incident on that
                                                            ­                            cataclysmic day.

The explosion was very loud, and shocked everyone who saw the accident,
(At that stage it was thought to be a mistake and not really meant)
But after 45 minutes we saw another plane on New York airspace encroaching,
And realised that the first was no accident as there was another jetliner
                                                        ­          on the way, fast approaching.

The other plane flew into the second of the towers standing proudly there;
One minute flying in the sky and the next 'twas no longer there,
For the aircraft disappeared totally into the core of the giant concrete building
And it was about half way up the tower, I suppose you would say just about
                                                           ­                             in the middling.

The world's TV stations covered these events 'live' with horror and with awe;
No one knew who had done this, which shook the US of A to its core;
The New York firemen sped to the scene and it is agreed they were very brave
As they did their best to rescue people in the towers, and many a person's life
                                                                      undoubtedly they did save.

But there was worse to come and all know this now (but did not at the time)
Because the towers had been weakened by the crash in this great crime;
Then first one tower fell to the ground with a great noise raising lots of dust
And the other one crumbled with a mighty roar which might well have
                                                                damaged the earth's very crust.

This was without a doubt one of the blackest days in the history of the U.S.A.,
Still talked about with shock and awe and people still cry about it to this day;
And news commentators asked who had done it and soon opinion hardened
With the agreement that it had been masterminded by a Saudi Arab whose
                                                           ­   name was Mr Osama bin Laden.

On the same day as these events which did such damage to old New York City,
Two other planes got hijacked too and the results of that were not very pretty;
One of the other planes landed with a thump on the walls of the Pentagon,
But the fourth one failed in its mission and crash landed en route to the
                              president's residence: the White House, Washington.

So looking back, one might say that they were the start of a war of terror
(And only time will tell if subsequent US attacks on the Arabs were in error)
But whatever transpires these happenings will always be remembered;
However by calling these dire events "9/11" most of the world believe they
                                              happened on the ninth day of November.

Please understand that when I say these things it's not really me talking, it's the concrete in my stomach, it's the staples in between my toes, it's the zip ties around my wrists, it's the scars around my wrists, it's the coals in my throat, it's the liquor in my throat, it's the liquor in the cabinet my mom never had to put a lock on until I started hiding in it, it's the noose around my neck, it's the smoke in my eyes, it's the bullet in the barrel, it's the gun in my dad's closet, it's the gun in my hand, in my mouth, when I say these things it's not really me talking, it's all these things trying to get out.