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 :-)

Still the night
muffled by a dark velvet sky
so animals may slumber
while others take silent flight.
An aphotic world
kept in secret from sight
shared only among hushes
in the envelope of a sigh.

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.

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.

Butterscotch bruises are those water stains on a white ceiling.
Fighting the bleach at every dab and swab.
Days pass since the cause was fixed, but still they mar and taunt.
A few more days, then try again, then paint over regardless.  
Another of life's little irritants,
little annoyances grinding away.
Then there's the ants, don't get me started,
the temperamental heater, the obnoxious neighbour, the bills, the muscle spasm that never fully goes, the arguments, the hang nail, the rudeness of strangers, the frozen screen, the word slip, the stupid what's app messages,
the struggle to write a verse.
The list goes on and on and will long after we're gone.

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.

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?

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.

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.

T's a winter's night and all around
a bitter wind is howling.
Collar's up,
but my mood is down,
I've whiskey enough for drowning.
Cursing my luck and cursing some more
the name behind my feelings
as I walk the grounds
memory's found
a different colour to your eyes.

T'was a summer's day and swallows swooped on sunbeams and lovers laughing.
My spirits were high,
but my heart suddenly sank like stone
cos you said you were leaving.
I begged and swore, prayed and begged,
but you gave me not a reason.
Hopeless the tears
my living fears.
You left swifter than a bird in the sky.

T'is been brittle years and lonely roads my weary feet have been travelling.
Legs keep me up,
but my soul hangs low,
yet I've never stopped my searching.
You flew with my heart
and my heart's stayed with you.
Never will it come returning.
Tramping these roads
has worn out my soul
wishing your memory would fade
and die.

He tossed his radio out the window.
95 piece orchestra and composer
hurled through the air.
As Wagner crashed
he cracked open a bottle of wine
to take his mind off
his hatred for the predictable.
Then her ghost came to him
like he knew she would;  
to haunt him,
to taunt him.
Though there was nothing scary
about her cool milky thighs
sliding out of a butter yellow skirt.

Squandered an hour or so
chasing an echo's
last rebound
off mountain slopes
until the final "hello"
fell unanswered as it petered out tapering to a point of silence.

A squandered hour or so
making sure I was all alone
Sometimes and some places
are better being by oneself
like when you need a primal scream to rip open
unwitnessed,
unseen
for some the burden of despair
is too personal to be shared,
and no, talking doesn't always help.

The cold gnawed through bones this morning
If there were clouds I'm sure ice blocks would have fallen
crushing cars, destroying roofs and squishing squashy humans.
But the sky was a crystal blue perfect.
I thought it said "hello"
and "how are you"
"shivery but fine", my reply
Then a glint of sunshine gave me a smile.

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.

I rested on a bench on a bank of a canal.
The grey steady sky gradually broke blue.
It was cold, but the sun soon shone through
thawing the chill from my bones.
A sparrow landed beside me on the green metalic seat.
Glanced at me once then eyed
the debris gathered by my feet.
Not spying any decent morsels to eat,
it took to the sky and flew.
As I watched it go
I heard my soul whispering,
"please take me with you."

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

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.

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

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.

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?

The kindle worked
its charm on the coal
tempting its soul
to unite in flame.
Outside shrieked
the wind and rain
calling my name,
but the windows and doors
were closed
and worried eyes counselled me to stay.
Thinking of older, darker days,
"Cast ye back to the depths from whence ye came."
A fist shaking in mocking scorn
at the storm.
The rain continued on
for the rest of the day
as the fire danced
and fell in love
with its flames

"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.

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?'

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

Bah humbug it's Christmas
Time to panic and purchase extra ****
Time for adverts to hype kids to pester parents to scavenge shelves. Time for painful smiles to be painted and pretend all is well as kin folk gather.
Worry about bedding, and seating and gravy boats and tangled lights and sellotape and hiding spaces they want to sink into.
Time for the lonely to feel isolated and the happy to be oblivious.
Time for excess and ** ** **. Christmas songs relentless grinding through bones while millions go without.
Time for charity boxes to rattle because governments ignore.
Time for hangovers and walks of shame.
Devouring more than is needed. Consumed by the season's abused meaning.
Then once done and discarded we have January, Billuary ready to ****** up the spoils.
And the New Year foolishness of resolutions, and lose weight, get back in shape, sales and sales and holiday dreams until the old valentines rolls in, then Paddy's day and Easter, then pressure for the perfect beach ***. It goes on chipping away and chipping and chipping.

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

Time:
a perpetual motion,
an unstoppable force.
The present:
a constant collision with
an immovable object:
the past.

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.

Tumbled down rubble
pushed then mounted
into the truck's buckets,
driven through sodden mud
and away from centuries of familiar standing,
do memories join your journey,
shadows of past existence and echoes of sweat,
of worry?
The bones of a building
shell shallow and crusted
without soul.

She's sitting there all pretty,
but I feel nothing, not a stir.
Shift closer in my chair
tossing conversations at her.
She throws them politly back
unsure.
Perhaps hoping for a spark,
a connection.
I gaze into her eyes at evening light's reflection
sparkling brightly as a dew drop glistening in the morning sun.
She's unaware of my distraction.
She got it wrong.
I notice a shy smile glow and resonate.
Her pupils dialate.
Unintentionally I've led her on.
Feeling a little guilty, I remember the evening's not just for me.
I cut the tethers of care to see
what our bodies will do.

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

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

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.

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.