a hook of a moon
hanging low
burying itself into the dark soil of night ploughing methodically
churning the folds of time unsympathetically
despondent
weary
oblivious to the passing seeds
of thought
laboured over.
Should I expect more
from the ruts it rolls,
perhaps growth of understanding
or a crop of acknowledgment
for my wonderment of it?
Or is it simply a tool
to capture imaginations
of a fool who secretly belives
I have an intimate bond
with its silent magnificence,
perhaps wishing it looks at me
like a brother who shares this moment.

tied a baloon
to the tombstone
of her best friend
in the cemetery
A puffy metalic-blue
number two
marking the passing
of her anniversary.

She shuddered then cried
till she spied
her sobbing complexion
in the balloons reflection.

Heard her friend laughing at her
she needed that,
oh how she needed that.

Beyond the passion of colour
the wind is crawling over trees
clawing at loose clothing
and things
not tethered or secure.
Beyond empathic words uttered
it sings hollow
and then a full
roar
settling its breath
to a sigh as it dies
beyond the texture it brings.
With nothing to mark
its existance except thee.

Slips of paper,
lines desperately written
before they are forgotten
the ink silenced;
hidden.
left to breathe,
gathered with others
growth of meaning
the fortunate ones remain,
disassembled,
realigned and set firm.
These words,
the chosen silent ones,
fixed and shared
hold power to be heard
when read
our thought's expression,
our passion.
Do we choose the poems
or do they choose us?

Oh has there ever been a breath such as yours
to tease goosebumps upon my neck as if they were my first?
A breath of passage from deep within lungs that oscillates my blood and heart's pulse?
Oh has there ever been a breath such as yours to carry heavylight words
of love?

Snapdragon prints on a summer cotton dress
Your body gave them vibrance when you danced,
your laughter gave the petals sweet fragrance,
your bouquet
a shroud of decadence.