Engine oil buried deep as hate beneath my nails.
Won't scrub away
it remains like the mistakes I made.
Not always visible,
but I know it's there all the same.

Old tatt lines blasted as heart ache,
it's hard to follow the ink.
What it represented
now an obscure link
like faded love.
Though in a certain light
it don't look that bad,
or so I tell myself,
but mostly I try not to think.

Sharpening sticks on stone
preparring for verbal
battles bombs
to be thrown
no cover when lovers
cross the line that was drawn
by a
tripwire slip of the tongue
never meant to be done
though often on the horizon of thought like the cusp of dawn..

War drum
the march
into no-mans-land
from which there's no return.
Forced to make a stand
tackle and defend
now the gauntlet's fallen.
To the jugular attack!
no retreat
no victors
only defeat.
Somethings you can't take back.
Sorry is the poor shield.
It's useless to yield
for the weapon
cuts deepest when wielded
by those we love fiercest.

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.

In the darker place
where a man can be crushed,
taunts haunt
betrayal of trust
each echoed word steps
a ragged booted stomp,
one per breath of rust,
there  
the shackles that restrain
also hold me up.

The clouds have gone
leaving stars, space
and a bitter chill.
I stand still
listening to the wind
picking its way through
trees' naked limbs.
My cat sleeps near me,
purring its engine,
close now to its end.
I could have been a better owner
to my feline friend.
I hope he pulls through,
but he's old and no longer can fight
with the other tom cats
who enter my garden at night.

Rubbed drying earth from my hands,  
swabbed my brow with my shirt tail.
Jeans stained with mud and plant juices,
the shovel rests without complaint on the lawn (It's use to me by now).
Though my back aches
and blistered hands shake,
despite being beat and done,
working out doors
under the intense sun,
crawling with insects
stinking of sweat,
I feel more satisfied
than when I sit
in a clean office
on a comfortable chair
with only a phone to lift.

pockets of puddles
between cobbles:
gaping mouths
ready to gobble,
tears dotting tissues
dripped sorrowful issues,
petals of rain in bloom
a thousand abandoned tombs,
spaces to reflect night,
mirrors warped by rippling light,
nets to capture minds.
Beneath my feet.

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.

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?

Leaf lids fluttering
flirtatiously
leaf lips rustling,
uttering,
puckering under windy kisses. Gazing up through their stainglass limbs
a ****** of nature, but only in admiration, not in the strict meaning or sense.
No, not like that.
Some surrendered to the early flash of autumn colour.
Threw in their lot.
Disconnected.
Gentle deaths,
landing softly
be nothing left of them come spring.
Hope they died "the little death" making love to the wind in their own unique way.
Before humanity distroys them.
Little things, these leaves,
leaving the world and
a fool to wonder.

Had better days,
but who wants to hear me complain?
My heart's not broken
and I'm not depressed,
but I'd better days all the same.

The kids have been good,
and my wife still loves me,
there was sunshine
between showers of rain.

Paid off the bills,
I'm physically well,
yet I'm feeling far from ok.
Want the end of today.

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.

It only
takes the tiniest thing to
create a big difference.
An extra spoon of sugar
can make or break a cake.
A minute or two
to catch or miss a train.
A second or two
to turn a glance into a glare.
A centimeter up or down
a smile or a frown.
A word spoken or not
a question mark or a dot.
A thank you
a *******
a shrug
a hug
a coin in a collection cup
a 'how are you, honestly, what's up?'

Almost content
Not fully there yet
But an improvement nonetheless.
Yes?
I'll take that
as time well spent,
well as time not wasted
a recovery of sorts
Almost brave enough to gather thoughts,
Almost.
Almost considering making plans.
Yes,
Plans come before hope but after dreams. And I'm not ready to consider anything as bountiful as those.
But it'll take more time. More healing and permitting myself an occasional forgiveness.
Maybe just one.
Meant to help lighten the load so I've been told

The turn of summer's end
already caused  ailing leaf's stems
to tremble and quiver
one last hand, one last trailing touch before a final
release on high wind,
the leaves descend
transcend in their death
back to the earth which gave birth
a bittersweet rejoice
as colours and ribs fade to dust
and return to soil
to feed the tree nutrients for life.

When you Fall in love
no guessing how you'll land
never as planned
could strike it lucky
tick all the boxes like
noughts and crosses
impulsive as lips's
compulsive kisses
vows and promises,
but sometimes
you run dry of suprises.
It can wither and splinter
beyond reconciliation
through nobody's fault
despite careful consideration.
Perhaps you never land
when you fall in love
only when you fall out.

Was the lover you took
worth the hurt
you inflicted
on the one
you left?
How long did
that part of your heart
set flight before the door last slamed?
Was the goodbye coiled
ready
to strike like a hidden snake
waiting to be poked the wrong way?
Or were the fangs always on display
as honest
and as bitter as the bite

Wander my thoughts to a mountain stream
so crisp and pure its whisperings
are prayers
and dappled flecks of light
glisten the ripples to glinting eyes
blinking bright.
gazing down
my wandering
floats me upon a travelling
leaf fleeing its tree
to experience life at sea
and I with my bond of fantasy
steer the vessel through tributaries union and confluence widening
into river's run
traversing bends and rapid rush
then lull before the gaping swell
of oceans welcoming gulp.
and swallowed
my wandering cast me free
while the leaf continues out to sea
on wave and surf's gallop
to return to watery core
where mermaids dream of dry land's shore.
There the Queen of them all
found a treasure so pure
a small leaf forever in a her crown she wore.

Woosie Tuesday
dreary blues day
head melted like a clock by Dali.
Willing time to quicken
but it's a
chained frantic junkyard dog: going nowhere beyond where it should.
Blustery Tuesday
frustratingly slow day
error ridden and awkwardly dragging sideways.
Been dotting t-s, crossing i-s
confused by afterthoughts
and should've saids.
Some days were made for beds

Waves receding into themselves
flaying no more at the shore
secrets once held discarded
like sheets kicked to a sandy floor

Amid the cracked shell shingle
and weaved seaweed mingles
left amber and driftwood sculptures.
Things long lost and dead to the world
are touch-rich in wonder and texture.

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?

Picked a star's flicker
behind a thinly streched shroud
of cloud
not long did it linger
before rain came down
and washed poor incy star out.
Did it jingle
as it twinkled goodbye?
No,
just the wish of a fool
with nothing better to do
than look for one last celestial wink
as his clothes get soaked.

Thursday's twilight
in the realm of dusk
somber battle lines
breaching horizon's outpost.
Wind blasts to advance
the march of night
daylight flees in silent disgrace.

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.

Stayed on a late one
'till I hit the last stop
weary as a hound dog
in the cut eye of dawn,
watched the gutters overflowing
gunk blocked drains
gurgling watery remains
onto sidewalks
wishing bitter pills of thought
got swallowed by the rain.
Stumbling footfall
steps drip and drop
progress slow as an enfant's crawl
aware of colours straining
to shed night's shroud.
Bed's as far away as yesterday
in some aphotic realm,
waiting to take this return
and bury it in the deep hole of sleep

Russet leaves bid me farewell
a crooked smile from an old silent friend,
'time to go. I'll never see you again.'
Laments a dirge breath of wind
guiding them to a definitive
end.

breeze mournfully whispering
to the leaves of light's defeat
to night's relentless march
trampling time
while hungry shadows of doubt
congregating over each line
the pencil scratches
Itching to rhyme.
But inspiration dwindles
as does the day's sky:
a ripped up inky sheet of night.
Failure to capture images of mind in my write.

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.

What do we do when the shadow's pressing against our hope
or dragon tails whip our thoughts into a frenzy
when we struggle to walk a straight line
on paths that twist and contort?
How do we ignore the vices and voices
that mock and entice us
or lights that would blind us
from the sight of the righteous?
How do we utter our words to a lover
when doubt trips us to stutter
knowing we should speak better
but the truth is smothered to a mutter
like a snuffed candle's last splutter
or spittle from a kiss interrupted?

I'm getting forgetful of late and keep losing things
Just the other day I lost something precious,
if anybody finds it
please you let me know.
I seem to have misplaced my trust.

Beneath the overhang of tension
we hesitate,
wait
for words to settle,
be withdrawn,
or apologies offered.
Curses spoken in haste provoke an impulsive, immediate reaction,
an equal cutting response.
We've lived and suffered the consequences before.
Allowed actions as instinctive as lust to run raw.
And we've been subjected to it's prideful display.
Guilty as a drunk's song waking dogs in the wee hours
and as certain as sure
we were right
all along.

I'll have to iron them I said for the fifth day in a row
eyeing the pile as it grows
stacked on a chair buried somewhere there under the creases and crumbled clothes
Er, I'll do it tomorrow,
maybe,
who knows?

The tree's now fleshed out
with leaves
shushing the wind's passion,
                                      'be with me'
moaning sighs to its lover
sway and stretch of torso and limbs
heart pulses
vibrating root deep
                                         'always'

On the wall opposite
a gallery of posters and pamphlet raising awareness, and warnings
of conditions
he prays she doesn't have.
High glossed brochures they hope not to collect afterwards
The weight of the waiting
as crushing as the worries
they try to play off
in light conversation
pretending it's nothing.
Urging each open door and passing uniform to be the calling.
Eyes burning through the back of those who came after,
but are seen before them.
The unfairness of it draws the focus of their anxiousness in mutter curses.
Recalling the sayings
"its a rare person who wants to hear what they don't want to hear."
it depends on why and how long you're waiting.
They sit there trying to stay calm, distracted
and stare at the floor,
focusing on the ripped edge of a poster as many before have and many will again

My eyes rested on you
nestled into your grey-blues
shimmering in evening light.
lips settled onto
the shifts of your mouth
berry ripe
to taste, lap and ****.
Bodies absorbed weight,
comfort in warmth,  
swell and fall
pulse and lush.
Feeling we belong.

You stop me dead in my tracks
like a roadside ghost
searching for phantoms cast
by the glow of your eye
when you said that you love me,
I'm expecting a lie to lurk
from the vulnerable part
I've tried to hide
cause I've heard it before
returned the word too
of four letters
more than once.
Insecurity set to pounce,
should I bale or sabotage this revelation your perfect mouth poured into my ear but you couldn't hear
the bleeding, seeping, weeping
echoes from yesteryear.
On another road
when my love was hurled back
killing something inside
leaving a ghost on the tracks.

I love you to bits
but simetimes you're a *****,
and I can be a real ****.
Then we kiss
and get over it.
Love is constant,
but not constantly
filled with moonbeams, candle light and love making most sensually.
Sometimes it is dull,
or falls into routine.
We all **** and snore,
but that don't make nice poetry.

Love rocks

When wings of time
sweep you away
things return
to being just things
Nothing to cherish
nothing significant
Nothing worth noting
A night without stars
a sun without radiant warmth.
A wine stain is a blemish
A cold pillow takes up space
A clock tics slowly.
Things are only things
nothing more
You gave them essence

As kids we'd play
beneath a summer sun
that turned
the pitch
between slabs of laid concrete
on minor suburban roads
into soft globs
malleable enough
to scoop out and
use as makeshift glue
to adhere icepop sticks
end to end
in triangles and squares.
These we'd toss to one another
in absence of Frisby or paint *** lids.
There were less cars those days
and none complained
to a bedraggled clump of kids
***** ***** but up to innocent clean mischievous play.
Digging up parts of the road we'd all eventually leave by.

Never known an oak to grumble about politics
or a cloud question its faith
never known a worm worried about its looks
or a hedgehog do an early morning walk of shame
never known a pebble craving attention
or a flower seeking revenge
never known a puddle to scream in anger
or a star seeking another to blame

It's in your eyes,
your smile,
the warmth you bring,
it's in your passion,
the lightness to your infectious laughter, the tenderness of your touch, the silence of your understanding, the toughess of your stance, the class of your character. It's in your parental devotion,
your generous nature,
your caring and self-sacrefice.
It's in your strength, in your dignity,
it's in your companionship,
it's in your being,
it surrounds you and flows through you without your knowing.
Its more than any one thing,
it's more than all combined.
It is you,
it is your love I can't cope without,
and I give you mine.
I love you G.
happy Valentine's xxxx

Cast her head back
she's got a neck for kissing
through nicotine fog and neon high
when the drinks are flowing.
can spend a time there
enjoying and forgetting.
Just a spot needing scratching.
It's lacking affection
lost to notions of devotion.

Stepping sober in the land of the living when the tinsel of a night has settled
the taxi off loads you
to a chilly morning kerb.
There awaits a hollow echo of the hallway
when the door latch slots home.
cool bed catches your fall.
No arms, nobody, no 'good mornings' with a kiss
nobody missed

Passing by those
owners of sad lost eyes
like Rubin's faceless
slumping on kerb ridges 
body bridges
between pavements and
shuttered shop cages
where the cast of a streetlamp gets swallowed up
by dime bag shadows,
30 to 1 outsiders
and washed up wannabe beatniks
too wild for Kerouac pages.
I'm sure there's a beauty somewhere there
below the crust of the surface
late in the a.m. between
stiletto heels clip and echo
and the strike and flare
of cigaretted fingers
if I only dared
to thread and seek out
where a different twist of choice nearly led.

The memory came as sure as night’s silence
between the hours
when sane people sleep
and the flush of dawn was yet to be considered.
Fleeting memory on the peripherals
the distinctive recall like a snuffed candle’s scent when no candle can be seen.
For what purpose does it still serve?
The sharp ache of it has long since faded
to a dull throb,
and then only when you try to clutch it
and face it.
scrutinize it once again.  
The memory mellows with a faint aftertaste of oak aged whiskey from a tumbler long dry in the depths of advancing echoes
from its footsteps
from its footsteps
from its footsteps