Went their separate ways,
but hearts are lagging behind
a waltz filmed in black and white
silent screen flickers in their mind
the goodbye a freeze frame
of a desperate time.

Moved on with their lives,
but the dance doesn't feel right
jukebox earning its coin
throwing out a verse with an aching line.
Lost in rhythm they forgot to rhyme.
Can't hear the tune over the crying.

He made beeswax
from honeycomb caps
scraped,
distilled,
filtered
through a fine muslin sack.
Seeped liquid gathered
dark honey stays there
pure wax floats and cools in a layer
on top.
Removed with care
for the melting ***.

Cotton wick
best braided flat
cut to length the strip
for the hot vat.
Dip
by timely
dip
dressed
a veil,
a shroud,
a cloak.
The chandler's
pale golden coat.

Four o'clock
dusk is sinking
shadows eagerly waiting
to usurp the day
Winter's germinating
chilly roots burrowing
deep
to the bone
will children reap
the harvest of snow
will its pale smothering
conceal broken homes
as the bitterness
silently
grows  or
rekindle the warmth of hearts
that froze?

Caught the tailend chimes of their laughter pealing through the corridor.
I stopped to listen at the gaiety
without a thought of its source,
simply enjoying echoes
of merriment.
It's contagiousness brought me a smile
gladdened to go unnoticed as a witness
happy to ignore its origin
sometimes it's enough
to know loved ones are enjoying themselves.

Winds howl
an accumulation of snatched words
none heard falling from shattered mouths.

Shadows stretch
toppled promises never kept,
wishes left to wilt,
dissipated dreams.

Chills creep
verglass eyes
red rimmed
the distant stare.

Night gulps loneliness
deeper than
the vacant swallow
between stars.

Need to shake myself
before
I lose my grip.

Been a dour hound
time I think
to take a trip.

These layers of dust
I can shift
once I find my feet.

Got some surface rust,
but beneath
still thumps a steely beat.

Between steps
her silence paces
ripples of a memory
keep me company.
And I swear at times
I can feel her hand clenching mine
snug deep in an overcoat pocket;
her breath sighing
into my ear
on the verge of uttering,
but words no longer live there
and
how our bodies pressed so close
our heartbeats were
undistinguishable
and everything rhymed.

He is a hurricane
and blows me away.
I'm trying to hold on to you,
but how can I compete with that?

He is a rainbow
his colours block out my shades.
I try to sketch a future for us,
but how can I compete with that?

He's a genius
makes me a babbling fool.
Trying to figure out why you'd ever want me.
How can I compete with that.

But he'll never understand what it's like
to count every second a blessing
cos you're in his life.
And he'll never stay awake every night
knowing dreams will never be
as sweet as you by his side.
And he'll never love you
with the passion that I do.
Tell me,
how can he compete with that?

The cost of a dream
castrates it
uneven
unclean
sharp as a window's peak
or the mock of hindsight
is it because it's a selfish thing
to want what is wanted?
Can we allow ourselves
to be purely happy
without the inevitable afterthought
of why is there always a price,
or anxiously expecting negativity?
Perhaps it's just me...
unless the dream is for another.

I listen for the call
in words,
in a look,
in a touch.
Longing for the return
of the soft weight and crush
of your ******* upon my chest.
Flesh hotter than Fahrenheit
together pressed,
roll and glide and engulf.
Lips and tongue and your
love's tremble
slight,
arch of body and scented hair tumble.
Our love's shared laughter,
kisses pealing
our campanology
freely ringing,
echoing
till sleep.

"Ah, grumpy thumb have you met------?"
He stood aside.
I saw a wave of hair so slight,
black as jet.
Shoulder length
faint apple scent.
Pale blue eyes,
button brows creased mild.

"Hi." A little shy.
Our hands touch.
Her's: soft, warm and dry.
"Hello."
A friendly shake then let go.
A smile, matt salmon-pink lips.
Fine laughter lines.
Genuine.

Host makes a beline.

Feeling a little uneasy, "I'm not good at these things....." indicate with a nod.
Her smile stretches.
Button brows an animated lift.
Stepping closer, "Me neither.
To be honest Grumpy, I'd prefer beer and pizza."
Tingle laughter.
"Me too, but when in Rome!"
I take two champagne flutes off a walking platter.
We clink.

"Shall we?" Slender arm snakes round mine unexpectantly.
Sidestepping the gathered bulk of people we find space.
My eyes trace the small dimples of her cheeks. Nostrils flare, better to remember the bloosm of her hair.
"With all the cackle, I didn't catch your name."
"Oh, it's---------"
The host returns again.

Neons red in rain drops
bleeding down the window
a prayer for the ones
deserving more than they got.
Knew one,
a little buttercup,
parchment pale skin
and the bluest eyes
never caught a break
like a pigeon
with a low hanging
wing
on the ground it trails
left to peck in the gutters
with all the others
but the others
can always fly away.

My beautiful sad song
melody knows my soul by now
must of sang it a thousand times
over a thousand miles
and endless trials.
The heaviness of verse sinks me deep
chorus holds me down,
but its air
I can't help but sing,
it knows when to play for me
somehow.

Walls too high,
too thick
can't dig under it.
doors cemented up,
I can't change that.
Standing outside
barefoot
on cold ground;
gravel's too rugged
to lay down,
shadows cast
a losing lot.
All I got's
a dwindling spark,
yet,
here I am
riveted to the spot.
Stand I or be cripled.
One of us will crumble,
but my will
will not.

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.

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.

She asked,
"What are you thinking?"
But I was just being
while
staring at the ceiling.

Wouldn't let it go
so an old thought was recycled
about life and an icicle
unsure of the season
and if it knew the ozone was bleeding.
Should it be busy worrying
or thinking,
or carry on simple enjoying
being freezing?

She shook her head, "Honestly, is that the best you got
for me?"
I shrugged and went back to my ceiling
happy and content in the presence of her being

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.

Night rests now you have arisen
broken free from slumber's prison.
So many chores must be done
awaken birds
hold up the sun.
Paint new colours
give time a fresh life.
Prepare opportunities
for creatures and people to strive.
Good morning dear day

Relationships based predominantly on *** are like chewinggum:
Sure it's mouthwatering and juicy at first, but when the flavour goes you're left going through the motions. Sooner or later you're gonna bite your tongue or be spat out on the pavement and trampled upon.

Sponsored by the good people of beefjerky,

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.

Guzzling Joe
black 'n strong 'n unsweetened as it ought to be
to kick a little something into you
and a drag of a smoke in a quiet place while there's still some morning silent grace like an embrace awake
under a pastel smudged dawn
as dew clings on to another moment forlorn in its dissipation
it gets you ready for the slow deliberate walk into another day

Her side of the bed's
warm as a hug
she just left for work
closing the door like a book
I'll later pick up
and lose myself in
in the pages of her return.
For our lives are written
one little word at a time,
line by line,
chapter after chapter.

I buried my cat tonight as my children slept.
I'll tell them in the morning,
hope their sadness doesn't carry into Christmas.
About ten years ago I burried his brother.
Not quite next to each other,
but close enough to count
for something I guess.
Cruel job collecting what was his, throwing them out,
cleaning where I found him.
Trying to stay calm.
Tonight I write because I can't afford a shrink.
Maybe that's why I always write.

An urn
slung on shoulder
braced in place
by smooth cream
slender
arm
and crease of curl covered neck.
Another urn
held on tip of hip
as if a mother yearns a child's weight
Toga frozen in flow,
fanning its tail by ankle
above sandalled foot and petite toe.
smirk outdating mona's,
below cute nose
framed by soft marble cheeks
wishing hints of rose
Grecian girl looks vacantly down
oval eyes void of iris and pupil.
Thoughts unknown.

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?

Welts on my hands
knuckles cut raw
back is aching
can't work no more.
Been thinking of this
losing a fight with that.
Wish I had a million
or a cowboy hat.
Cast my nets
caught nothing to eat.
I'd place my bets,
but the odds are too steep.

But when I see you
all pain disappears
can't imagine anyone else
beside me in my older years.
You're a priceless love
my buckaroo.
I never feel hugry
when I can feast on you.
I've nothing to risk
since I won your hand.
But when you're not near
I'm a lost useless man,
so I am.

The bus threw up it's passangers
street's bustle flushed them away.
He sidestepped a muttering ******
who'd seen better days.
Umbrellas popped open
and hoods pulled up
against the falling rain,
but his thoughts were a staccato of her.

The lure of coffee and pastries
from a deli warmly beckoned all to
stay,
but the hustle of pedestrians
carried him south on his way
towards officeblocks looming ominously
flanking the warf along the edge of the quay,
but his thoughts were of a staccato of she.

If I could
I'd take your smile
put it away until times weren't kind
I'd add it to the wink you left behind
That would carry me through most anything.

If I could
I'd preserve your kiss
Keep it safe until times of loneliness
Reminds me distance keeps you from me
I'd open the lid and let the touch
Carry me to you

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.

More cut up from what was given
than what was taken in her leaving.
There is no mistaken
all was possible
for a while we were unstoppable.
then pop went the bubble.
The hardest patch will always pass
once removed rose tinted glass

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.

A willowy passage greeted us
threading a trail through a light wood
high with pine and robust elm trunks.
Frens curled and licked
ankles and shins
leaving damp sheen on boots
carefully avoiding sprawling roots  
there as reminders
nature can reclaim the trail
if and when it chooses.
Husks of beach nuts
dark open stars long pilfered of their bounty
littered a strech of eight paces.
She pointed to movement in the undergrowth,
a flick of leaves and scurry of a squirrel.
Taking my hand for balance and warmth
I lead her through the silence
fearing to breathe in case a breath spoiled the tranquility

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.

Attractive women still hook my eye
stir a spurt of blood from an instinctive side,
but they lost the power they once had to drive me wild
and vacated the thoughts where they used to reside.
Guess I'm now more drawn to those who have an attractive mind.

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.

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.

I  relate to you
veterans of love
comrades of heartache.
We are sisters and brothers in arms
soldiers of romance.
We are in the same platoon.
The lines of poetry we cross
are our dogtags of the relationships
the victories,
losses and wounds
from many a battle fought.
We the scarred,
the hardened,
the sacrificed.
Some of us are/were shell shocked,
some too numb or scared to fight again.
We were recruited on an endless tour
and we will march on
to win the war of love

You don't miss the water untill the well runs dry,
sometimes I miss the well.

Today
I considered the crabapple tree
the slow swell of its buds;
the future birth of deep crimson leaves from each sprawling limb
I let grow wild,
refusing to clip and snip.
Even at my best imagined vision,
I could never sculpt it better
than its natural design.
Well, I lie.
Took the saw to a branch once
that came close to poking out my eye
by the washing line.
But the rest
I left
to stretch.
Its many arms reaching
to hold the sky
as I
behold it.
A simple tree,
is it nature's gift to me?

Sorrowful wilting petals
those eyes;
bleeding wounded emotions
through the glistening of tears.
Could I evoke hope
for one sitting alone
siphoning reason
from crushed remains
of what's left from what's not right?
Is solitude the only healing grace
time perscribes?
Heavy pleading eyes
searching for where it all went wrong.
Should I approach this stranger
or leave one alone?