An excerpt from a love story I am too lazy to write

She found him outside her small flat
he was in the bloom of the old lamplight.
she noticed the grey flecks in his beautiful eyes.
Hi!
he whispered
softly like honey falling from a spoon.
She flashed her prettiest smile
And tossed her hair back like she used to.
You look as beautiful as I remember.
She looked at him for some small signal of remorse
but she could not see it.
He wanted her
she felt his need even in the cold night air.
There’s a hole in my existence he said.
His mouth almost smiling.
The smile that had her undress
for him a thousand times.
Why me?
I was never enough before she retorted.
Wanting to hurt him as badly as he had hurt her.
I did not know I loved you
until you were not there he said.
A sadness glowed in his eyes.
And if you remember
it was you that left me.
Why did you leave? He asked
Because you never asked me to stay
she said quietly.
I am asking now he answered.
She let him into her flat
They undressed and made love.
When she awoke she heard
the click of her door as he left her.
She knew her heart would ache
Just as it had before.
And she knew he would be back again.
And she would let him in once more

Going Home

The ghost are everywhere.
I see them under trees.
In gardens and ice cream parlors.
Going home after all the passing years
It is a haunted place
Yet it will always be home.
The small English town
Lichen covered stone everywhere.
Even the cobbled streets remain.
Shining wet in the ever present rain.
Between the faded
Old fashioned shops
On either side.
A church clock strikes three.
As children jump from
The school steps
Like a soul returning to heaven.
I see a boy with his scruffy dog.
They are happier than billionaires.
The dog reminds me of my boyhood pet.
A scruffy mongrel running happily
with an even scruffier boy.
It is only another ghost.
But I think it is me

My Beautiful Fallen Angel

She stood facing
the fading sunlight.
High on a hill
beautiful and serene.
She told me
she was a fallen angel.
And her wings
had been taken away.
She said she would
teach me how to fly one day.
It was a sad
yet beautiful untruth.
She held out her arms
and enfolded me in them.
The beautiful fallen angel
with the sunlit hair
and eyes as blue
as a summer sky.
the only one
who can make
my lonely heart sing

Don’t take this as a love poem.
I do not care to relive our moments.
Like when I saw you for the first time.
And the songs of angels rang in my heart.

I will never write a love poem for you again.
Like when we sheltered from the spring rain
Below a maple tree in olive greens
And the colour of its leaves
Were the exact colour of your eyes.

I am finished with silly love poems
And will never mention again
How I stop and my heart skips a beat
when I hear a laugh
exactly like yours.
Or see a woman from behind
and her hair is burnished gold
Just like I remember yours.

I am now quiet over you.
In fact I hardly ever think of you anymore.
Except perhaps in blossoming springtime.
But then I should never think of springtime.
For that would surely
break my heart in two.

If I offer compassion to those that hate me, what will it accomplish? If I find the hopeless and give them kindness, what will that achieve? To give of myself and my wealth to those that have nothing, will it change a thing? If you believe in nothing then the answer is no, but if you believe in something, then yes there will be a gain. For mercy begets other kindness, though you may not see it. Though the one to whom you are merciful may not be grateful, the act of being merciful is seen by others. When your actions makes another rethink their actions and deliberate what they believe. Then a change can begin to take hold. Evil can be undone from with in. A cruel ideology can be reevaluated. One lowly person can accept your actions as a different way to live. Thus a repeating of what you have done, is what mercy shall gain.

You are an artifact, chiseled alabaster,
       I am just molded plaster of Paris,
You remain rich shiny white,
      irrespective of seasonal changes,
I need frequent  involvement of hands
      that know their craft well,
to be seen as an object of art, that barely survives,
    but still brittle, would easily turn to dust.
Men and women are different, inside out
    I was told, I see it myself now and delighted!
Over and over again I ask you to be aware of
      the limitations that tie me down and forgive
but you won't accept, go on with your life quietly
       caring so much to keep my sinking heart buoyant.

Politicians
are simply
socially sanctioned con-men
(and women)
with taxpayer salaries
and a teleprompter.