Dainty hours
spent with her petal soft smile
lush exchanges
how her mouth makes words warm
delicate  moments
when our eyes held each other
little desolate
when hands separated
and time disconnected us
as it blindly does
without so much as an apology

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.

Vision obscured by soft misty rain dampening harsh city lights
spilling slippery from storefronts and traffic train
shimmering upon pavements
between steps and stains.
soft misty rain
don't I know you?

Not every caterpillar
wants to become a moth or a butterfly.
Not every snowflake or drop of rain
wants to fall from the sky.
Not every petal of every flower
wants to tilt its face towards the sun.
Not every second of every day
wants to die the second it's begun.

Treated the plywood to be weatherproof, jigsawed to size base, sides and roof.
Applied non-toxic wood glue,
clamped pieces 'til sturdy and dry
not forgetting an entry hole through which birds may fly.
Took time with the birdhouse,
hung it snug in a tree.
If it will be used for the winter
I'm waiting to see.

The weighted press of measured steps on stair
accompanied by an echoed call to the familiar.
The first syllable of her name severed  midway,
yet it tolled long after the utterance rang out.
The comfort of routine;
tethers of association
snapped under the strain of realisation.
A mocking gift from forgetfulness...

...she left him..

Mechanical body shifts
fighting urges to hesitate and listen to her vanished sleeping breath.
Vacant the cold bedroom,
the chamber harbouring her scent on fabrics, pillow and scantly furnished dresser top.
Each sniff raw as salt on opened wounds.
She left
and left him
only remorseful residues
from the harvest
of three years and five months.

The last swallow swooped a departing circle
spiraling low
over dusk reaped fields of stunted straw.
Corn harvest gathered,
hay baled for winter feed store.
Gold trashed under combine tracks and tractor trails scarring the soil which birthed it.
The swallow's the last wings of a fading love.
The field a churned despondent heart.
The crop waning memories,
nothing more.

They are bombing children
as their own
are hummed lullabies.
They are bombing children
as their own
are tucked into bed tonight.
They are bombing children
as their own are rocked to sleep.
They are bombing children
with rockets burying them
in rubble deep.

Graceful quiescent
bronze ballerina
frozen liquid pirouette
rooted from toe-tip
flowing calf to thigh stem
stretch sublime.
Off-shoot extends
then bends
at knee
runs the shin to
soft ankle twist.
Toe to knee again.
Budding groin
torso flowering divine
unfolding to
delicate swan neck leaning
face in ecstasy
tilting up.
Petal arms reaching
slightly bowing
to tulip cup.
Finger tips
elegantly caress
the sky.

She sleeps
I'm outside under the eaves sheltering little from the rain
smoking late into the a.m. wide awake,
coffee for company and her scent
clinging to my skin.
There's isolated bouts of traffic  
late night revellers
returning
shadows
there to witness between
lamplight neons,
but I'm cocooned away
restless in the washes of rain
thinking of one in slumber within
the walls on which I lean

Do you know any good doctors?
My pen needs a laxative

Thick fog
muffling street lights,
confusing shadows,
smoothing edges.
Silent stretch of phantom arms,
damp embrace.
Smothering distance
veiled:
harsh city vanishes.
As wondrous as it is eerie.
****** into its vacume of nothingness.
Spellbound.

It's a quarter past Wednesday,
the coffee's late,
my bag-o-bones is dragging slow.
Heard little bo peep sold her sheep for gin
killing off the nursery rhyme.
Can't decide if that's a bad thing.
Feel like a late planted seed
unsure if it's roots can reach
deep enough to sustain strong growth.
Maybe tomorrow I'll have shoots and a little hope,
or leaves to sooth doubt,
or buds of competence
or fruits of confidence
and a coffee when I need it most.

Smudge of light
dim on pavement
made damp by drizzle.
Morning haze softening colours,
smoothing harshness
to pastels unobtrusive,
Extending the awakening dawn
void of witness to the rising sun.
Muted chorus of lark and blackbird
sensing the absence,
forlorn.

Once,
gentle winds navigated our craft
safely through
the turbulent waters of life.
Then you set sail
to voyage a separate course.
And my heart
capsized
in the wake
of your passing love.

Internal scream yearns to echo
lacking surface to rebound
when insides are hollow
a cry is the loneliest sound.
Breaking silence's seal
anguish looms worse
when none care to listen
desperate pleas become cursed.

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.

Only takes a small axe
to chop down a tree.
Which one are you
is the other me?
Could be harder to untangle
roots deep weave
from what we have
to who we could be.
Shall we close the book now
go our separate ways
and wonder how the story
could've played?
Or do we carry on growing
creating page after page
trying to forget the trees  
from which they were made?

When the snow melted
it took chunks of the road in its thaw.
Potholes sunk
where the water slurpped
away the under-soil.
Silence left with the white
now more venture outside
overstocking supplies
"we'll n'er run out again,"
one swore.
And cats are back spraying,
and dogs barking in confusion.
And the crocus buds to remind me
nothing has really changed
in all this change

Strange! Never noticed it before
distance from bed to door
in footsteps one per word
paced from sole to soul
"It is over for good."
Each a precise dagger throw
expertly tossed in the dark
piercing deep hitting the mark.

Stars prickle the darkness
counterpoints to measure its vastness
they steal eyes and gift wonderment  
allow birth of dream and scientific torment
they witness and receive wishes,
they exist yet
many are no longer in existence
the closest is only seen in its loneliness
yearning to shed the veil of blue

We all have a place
that we keep
(just in case)
our hord
or our stash
our clutter.

Things that had purpose
or by some chance
may be used again.
Oddities and nic nacks
Old candles and keys
obsolete rechargers and batteries
cables and thimbles,
coins of foreign currencies
manuals and letters and lint.

And they are stored
in shoeboxes,
beer crates
bottom drawers
wardrobes,
on garage shelves
or in hearts.

Tension hisses through cold shoulder silence
dagger-looks thrown when eyes can't meet
rough minutes grind down day long hours
feel a storm a brewing
in this teacup tonight.

The rabble simmered to a distant dull din
muffled by thick wooden doors and hands clamped over ears.
Wanting deafness rather than to hear again
the laughter accompanied by his name spoken ugly as sin.
But who can mute memories or what screams from within?

Wilting for another night
wishing a dream would birth
enough light,
praying
to believe he could face the world
head held high,
no stoop to stop confidence
nor twist of frown to drown positive assurances.
just enough would be enough for him
if he could walk the way
the beautiful do.
Just the way they do.

Thought is a boat
on the oceans of mind.
Waves, the emotions,
flow and ebb of the tide.
Curiosity steers the rudder,
Imagination the sails
billow by winds sigh.
Stars are interlect
for the sextant
there to guide
The elements are senses
influenced by outside.

My boat sails forever
upon this deep blue
drawn by the current
in servitude to you.

Streetdogs rattle
a drunken cackle
spilling home after hours.
Scuffing pavements
dragging heels and dignity low.
Voices traveling further
than they need to go.
The ****** persist in splitting peace
invading night.
Children pretend to sleep
believing the bowsies are cool.
Wanting to be just like them.
Some will too.

Into a damaged heart
a temporary fix
of one night stands,
maybes and what ifs.
Glossing over cracks,
but the temporary rips,
widens in time,
gapping holes yawn
an infinite scream.
Vortex,
bottomless swallow
hungry to be filled.
Waiting for love's builders
to swoon with steel and solid bricks

The wind's blustery paw mauled the night
rattling slack shutters and
shuddering corrugated roofs
like small change.
Sodden leaves congregated
in walled corner pockets,
praying for a last crack at dryness
and the playful kick and crunch of kids' feet.
Stray tomcat slunk
beneath
an s.u.v.
cowering at the naked trees
whose limbs fumbled drunkenly.
Not quite Munch's infinite scream,
but the closest thing I want to see
this night.

The sky gifts the ocean raindrop kisses, embraces it with shimmering sunlight upon its ripples.
The ocean returns its love
with affectionate reflections
assuring the sky of where its heart is.

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?

In the evening
I heard passers talking
about work that morning;
about numbers and deadlines
and the contracts for signing.
All the while
the evening sky was gifting
salmon wrapped cloud parcels
to the west,
the northeast dimmed
while the shy night hemmed
a starry sequined dress
but the passers only had green
in their eyes

I can't fix your hope
if its shattared or broke
Can't change where you've been,
where you're at
or where your going.
If you decide to be taken
by ocean or pavement
needles in the basement
or another definitive arrangement
I can't stop you,
though I hope you'll pull through
perceive a different view
find a strength within you.
Life's got more to give
but you've gotta
build your own  bridges
to reach where it is.
I can't do this for you,
but I'll be here if you need me too
even if it's just to shoot the breeze or to lean on

Dreaming of slow dancing
bodies close
eyes closed
arms wrapped round shoulders
hands hooked on nape resting: hers.
on waistline lower back nesting: mine.
Cheek to cheek
calm inhale
perfumed skin
scented hair.
Lips a whisper breath from ear.
Torsos easy sway.  
Pulses vibrate
and beat.
To risk a kiss could ruin this.
I love this song.

My heart feels old today
it rattles like a stone in a can.
My eyes feel cold today
as they strain for gems in a prospector's pan.
My feet feel heavy today
trudging the ruts I've created time and again.
My thoughts feel tired today
they eloped with all hope and ran.

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.

Comes a time when you surmise opportunity is ripe to dare a move
to allow fingers to do what they were meant to:
to reach and touch another's.
Or a hunch
those words often held
in check
have reached the point to breach
the dam of uncertainty
cos you can't hold 'em back.
Comes a time when there is certainty
in a feeling that there's
more to this than pleasantries,
and perceived fringes of opportunities.
Comes a time when you commit
those thoughts
and digets
and lips
to the lean
to the kiss
to the pathway
of least
resistance.

When Autumn kissed the tree,
its leaves blushed and fell.
Starlings took to wing,
oh what scandal they had to tell

Break some bread for the miller boy.
Pour some ale for him too.
Give him a chair to sit for a while
by a fireplace warm and true.

Play your fiddle-o for the miller boy.
Sing songs that are sweet and bright.
Let him rest his weary-o feet
and dream of peace tonight.

In a cafe sitting quite
wondering how tired
the waitress's smile is
as she shifts a slinky pivot
around tables
a routine on autopilot.
There's a tattoo shreak of violet
on her wrist.
Last night purged brightly from regretful mists:
Sprawl of limb
hinge and ******
flesh contorts
then erupts.
I read her script
she knew my score
rebound *** nothing more...
I think.
am sure.
...aint I?