When called up,
or forced to do,
I can put forth a face
of confidence.
It's only a vaneer,
I fear
because I do fear.

Gone the tenderness
from april eyes
that gave home to mine
decorated with playful dancing light
haloing soft depths
portholes of night.
Gone the tenderness
to graceful flight
lost in slumber
they're closed tight.

In reflection of minor moments that ended before I had understand or recognition of their value
I stumbled across a time of mine
as a child
scurrying through a park
hurrying to play before the dark
came to take freedom away.
From the corner of my eye
I spied
a wood pigeon
struggling against the snag
of dense ivy vine.
Its leg revealed trapped between
frantic flapping
and panicked call.
I crawled a careful crawl
ignoring thorns and nettle stings
I used to cover my approach.
Reaching out
denying maddened pecks
and talon sctatchs to detour me,
I gently held the bird
between leg and hand
as the other hand tore ivy vine.
Released it sored.
Swift and gone.
The throb of its shaking heart still echoing in my palm
as this memory echoes in my heart.

If this is the best person I'll ever be
without being forced to be better,
but being naturally me
without practiced speach
or promising false qualities
without superficial touch ups
of exercise, diet
and surgery;

if this is the best I'll ever become
without inheriting a fortune,
or every bet won
without dotting every I
or learning the answer of every sum
without begging forgiveness
every time I get things wrong;

if this is all that I ever am
without growing confident and competent with every plan
or becoming a hero
or a leading man,
but just remain being
a normal imperfect man,
am I enough for you to love?

Although they've antenna
I swear this snail fixed me with a look
that said,"listen buddy, you think you have it rough.
You don't know the half of it.
Now put me down, you're holding me up."

River hardened stones
cobble the road
centuries old
like polished bones
of the countless souls
that have roamed.
What stories they've told
what memories they hold.
adding mine to their load
a passage of one travelling home.

She listens to Kate Bush
on a Sunday morning
looks out on her garden
and the new buds flowering
sipping Earl Gray tea
a spoon of sugar she's stirring
then says to me,
"Bet you wish it was raining."

"How'd you know?"
"'Cause your a child of the rain.
I sense it in your smile,
but I can't explain.
There's a strangeness to your eyes
like a constant pain.
Just thought you should
know what I see."
I think she knows me.

Sometimes I feel
I belong in the twilight
as it falls into night
amidst the silhouettes of trees and vanishing birds.
Just before the darkness  
completes its full shroud.
Its nature hushes me
like the final rotation
of a spinning coin
or the last inhale
before a kiss.

There is a flow to you
silk ribbon soft
only noticeable when you are unaware of admiring eyes,
but a flow of sorts
hard to pin propperly here.
A flow of body and heart
in movement
in breath  
mostly gentle,
but it can snap like a whip
if things are unjust.
Mostly it is fluid
unpretentious and free.
I could never tell you this.

An oasis beyond a mirage,
a diamond beneath broken glass
some questions beg to be asked
is this worth persuing?

A rainbow at the tailend of a storm
a winning answer when all others were wrong.
Some roads take too long
is this one worth persuing?

An honest opinion among a nest of lies.
A truthful glimpse of what's behind the disguise.
Dwindling hope in why I should try.
Is this thing worth persuing?

A gentle landing after a turbulent fall
a pulse of love when your exhausted from it all.
Can we break through or do we hit a wall
Are we worth persuing?

The worst are the ones who don't realise they're being hurtful.
The ones who can't grasp anothers grumble.
The ones who can't hear the views of those around them.
The ones that don't drop it when you caution them.
The ones that can't see what's in front of them.
The ones that can't see past their own opinions.

She stood so still,
so silent,
freeze-frame focus.
a pinpoint of calmness
staring towards
the horizon where
ozone touches ocean
as she would
with one fluid motion,
one leap of perfection
from cliff ledge
to plunge and merge
so still, so silently
not a ripple
would mark her passing.

scrolled shavings
feather light
take flight
captured on breeze
in graceful fall.
skinned by deft hand
working the blade
whittling dormant shapes
made awake
with each stroke
of sharp edge
upon wood.
I'd watch his rough
hands move
with an unassumed dexterity and gentleness
born from experience
of one gifted in perceiving the form hidden from all eyes
but his.
This time bringing to life
a song thrush resting on a rock.

Hush,
the day's resting
night's emerging
earth's silently revolving
measurements of time are
peacefully shifting.

She brushed the ash off her jeans, though managed to rub some in.
She separated the roses from the weeds, but a few petals ended up in the bin.
She tried to let him down gently, yet she managed to bruise his heart.
She is full of good intentions, but sometimes her plans fall apart.

Caught in the drag of traffic
meandering a.m.
under cataract eyes of street lamps, parallel to shopfronts despondent.
Bleak slate clouds overhang
sullen and brooding with rain
through which we drive
listening to indicators
tutting each turn
as if they witnessed some moment of shame.
the wipers toss aside windscreen diamonds
like
reminders of treasured times
squandered.
An ache without physical pain
We e-rode away.

You can have such a true love
one you love complete,
but the one you love the most
Won't always know what you mean.

Lurking in a sullen snug
hiding away from eyes of the good
except the occasional ones
of a waitress who acknowledges
his order
with a nod
a momentarily glimmer of light
from neon reflecting sparks of life
between exchanges of glasses,
empty for full.
The change lands on the table  
dull as a labour's boots.
Sometimes here he writes
of worlds too fine for spoken words.
In the wakefulness of day
they are crumpled, discarded, shredded and burned.
Who'll listening if he could,
but speak as he wrote?
But there's nought.

The walls are sick of looking at me
as I try to explain
why I love the rain
as twilight wanes.
A hunching shadow's long sigh
waited for darkness
to swallow troubles
hardly worth the pain,
wondering when I last felt
some kind of good
or if I would
again.

Heavy eyes
but light hearts keep them open,
late night
early morning
not wanting
to miss a beat of every moment.
Then a kiss untill the next calling
taking time wistfully strolling
walking the colours into the day
as the night gradually fades
like the distance of two bodies giving way.
Though dreary there's an energy
wanting to keep dreams at bay
and savour every touch
and word you may say.

People remember parks when there's sunshine,
Set off for the beach when the weather is fine.
I prefer the Autumn and Winter when they're just mine.

The glimmer of light
skimming upon ripples
is so bright
I squint
trying to capture
its sparkling life,
to absorb its nature
and bare witness
while it yet exist,
before it slips
away
like a passing love
you would die to save.

The secrets of winter
give the deep dark redness
to the leaves of the crabapple tree.
I have no desire to prune or sculpt.
I am not wise,
but know enough not to try.
Rooted steadfast
yet its limbs sprawl wild
as if defying me.
Planted when I wed.
Imprisoned yet free.
My love for thee.

Sad as the kiss goodbye
the tears in the morning
the cold sheet
by the space
next to you.
Hope the phone's broken
there's no one calling
must have checked the volume
a million times.
In your mind
hope's replaced by wishful thinking
wakeful dreaming
feel like screaming
'cause next to you
was once a face
radiant as the sun in the morning
happy as the kiss hello.

Aul ones chinwagging
elbows on gate post
covering the weather
and those down the road.

Aul fellas gardening
weeding and mowing
musing about sports shows
and time long ago.

Nippers bawling
for bottles and changing,
wanting cuddles and tickles
wriggling their toes.

Children itching
for adventure and mischief,
muddy battles and bike rides  
princesses and vikings
climbing and swings.

Young teens
with make-up and dresses
hairbrush microphones
guitar tennis rackets
moviestar pose.

Adolescents practicing kisses
dances and car rides
Breakups and make-ups
wanting independence
then move out of home.

Men and women
seriously working for
marriages and family
And when they are auld.

Clawed back from the dredges of deep self-pitty
"woe is mine" and "abandoned" and other such decrees.
Raised head aloft above self and had a good musing of this one grain among many.
others are far worse
and others faring better
but most
grains fare the same.
Is there a parculiar comfort in sorrow?
An odd warmth to loneliness
Perhaps it's a strange familiarity that forgives lack of energy.
Though the choice of circumstance maybe beyond our persuasion,
how we deal with it
is in our control.
Or so I heard someone say

She was shower fresh
and some kind of happy
brushing her hair
humming a song.
There was a gleem in her eye
as she finished dressing
a knowing smile
as she put her high heels on.

She's got her headphones on,
can't see further than the magazine pages,
articles about painting nails
and what celebrities said.

He wears his Sunday best.
Pops a pill for heartburn.
Worries about tax returns
and the few pounds he's gained.

But later tonight
their passion will be on the cusp of perfection
the greatest gift they've got
is only for them to know.

She has a wicket mind,
though you'd never think if you met her. She'd drive a good boy wild
and she can sing pretty well too.

He's a creative soul,
though you'd never know if you met him.
Could melt a heart of stone
and can cook a mean chilly too.

Heart hard and worn as an old cemetery flag-stone.
Relationships were dead and buried there,
lovers long gone.
It can't help but mourn.
Does so alone
in lost hours.
Unexpectedly it stumbles upon
regrets thought flown,
hopes toppled down
and echos the loss of someone.

Didn't mean to rip the picture, but we were so mad at us ...no, so scared
and sad.
Didn't mean to shout, but we were yelling at us...no, primal scream
this shouldn't be happening.
Didn't mean to use those words, but we were being mean to us...no frustrated
and losing touch.
Didn't mean to walk away, but we forced us...no refused to be pushed
to proud because we trusted
in us.
Didn't mean to take so long to apologise, but we needed space from us....no, time to readjust
see how we felt away from us.
Didn't mean a thing to be only me and you...no, we need to be us
confessed it is true

Below the window the street spills through with each car pass and dribbling pavement foot fall, splashes of voices fresh as lilly dew. Babbling babes follow falling toys, hellos and goodbyes wash away in time's tides. And I listen out for you

The first blushes
of dawn
fragment mascara line silhouettes
of morn.
Powdered breath
caught in light kisses
of fading neon.
A turned up collar's
no substitute
for bed's warmth.
Heavy eyes loll lingering on
fresh passages
of the passing night
And how two bodies lied
to lie together
for a while.
Shadowing secret
hooded lips concealing
nakedly honest smiles
enough to make the dawn blush

Into air
her whispering whisped
in unison with
waiting wishes
and prayer.
They gather where
high winds howl in dispair.
Perhaps you've heared her song.
Or joined your hope to its chorus.

They looked on
avoiding
the beggers' mantra plea for change.
Too little
to give
that it didn't seem fair
to give
just to one.
With shame
he too
looked on.

Cloud cap,
graphite matte,
raised a horizon peak.
Pale magnolia added flesh
to dawn's early brow.
Is blindness worth witnesssing
the opening eye of the sun?
Waiting for the evening's softer one.

Wander where the coldness resides went I.
An alabi to excuse short comings: remaining pride.
Bittersweet freedom when it dies, to forsake the lies covering shame.
We give it a name: must explain.
To make it easier on ouselves like memories dwelling like dust upon shelves like fading footsteps on the shore like internet like stained knees from the fall or ignorance.
When it doesn't make sense and you have nobody to ask but yourself...is this what you get?

Petals weaping to the floor
so softy goes his sorrow
among the throng
sinking into silent folds
of rushing strangers
and weary busy waitresses
that trample the petals
as if hearts don't matter.
She would have gathered them
risking crushed fingers and peculiar glances,
and gently place them in her pocket
until home
to save them between book pages,
or the bruised ones for perfume.
She would have noticed him,
he knew
and did once.

Mildew bruised walls
dappled spread of white
between damp
black patches
spaning cinderblocks
beneath dry-rot rafters
supporting rusted
corrugated tin roof
worn thin and
pricked with holes.
Facing me and fantasy
they transform and morph
to marble rich castle walls
draped with bold tapestries
dripping crystalline feathers
from golden vaulted ceiling.

A fool sings a bard's song.

When loneliness comes
you call for another without calling.
When loneliness settles
you pray for someone without blessing.
When loneliness stays
isolation falls like winter's rain
deeply burrowing.
Destitute of humanity
despair comes echoing
when loneliness digs it's moat of disheartened thoughts
you shrivel disponded
cease the point of trying.
When loneliness calls.

She said,
"From thirty feet away
after a bottle of wine,
double G and T
and without my glasses,
you look oddly handsome."
Before adding
"In a certain dull light."

All in all I took it as complement :-)

He was too young
to have such an old man's cough,
rasping and wheezing rough
grinding each breath
like a motor clogged with rust,
He lit another cigarette all the same
Chugging along the street:
a slow rolling steam train
soon swallowed and lost
by a tunnel of pedestrians.

Regrets settle on a memory
like dust on an abandoned cobweb
out of reach
to wipe cleanly away.
It's an eye sore
you ignore,
but it's always there
when you try to overlook it.

Leaves me out to graze
wandering aimlessly on fields of
'When are you coming back?'
Left to lap from streams of
'Will you call?'
Just a pathetic pet wallowing in its basket
looking longingly at the door,
hoping every passing noise
is a sign of her.

She considerately held a smile
and strained to conceal the strain
of politeness,
asking correct questions
with an ear of patience
conveying interest
to spare feelings from being hurt.
Though I held a mask
of being fooled by her falseness
we knew we knew
and yet the charade continued.
I admire her for that.

Slowly dressing.
Silently regretting
this parting of bodies
our hearts and minds have broken up.

Tastes, scents, movement and touch;
contours, fluids, warmth and such.
Our bodies knew best
every stroke, kiss and caress.
At least they said their goodbyes
with fondness
far better than you and I.