She opened like a flower,
Soft, moist,
Glistening in candle light,
Scented
Delicate, like sea spray, or
Mornings
In the garden, with roses,
Dewdrops
On their delicate petals,
Petals,
Filled with anticipation
Of love.
Oh, love,
Let me never drink a wine
Sweeter
Than that, now upon my tongue,
Or hold
A prize, greater than that in
My arms,
Or know more joy, than to have
My lips,
Gently kissing this flower.

Surgery soon they say
Will I have to pay?
Been paying for a lifetime
to live another day
Could be next month or later
Eighteen weeks or less
they say

Give me nothing,
I’ll ask for naught,
My needs are few;
A smile, a kind word,
But, failing that,
A moment,
Just one brief period
Of time,
When I am in focus,
In your eyes,
If not your mind,
A second,
When I am all
You see,
When you recognize that
I exist,
A single, sentient, being
With feelings,
With dreams, but
I ask for too much.
Give me nothing,
It’s what you’re best at.

I love my little garden, Lord
Which you have given to me
I thank you for this haven
Where you can set me free

I pray each night to give me strength
To sow more wondrous seed
And for you to bless the pretty birds
Who fly right in to feed

I bless you for my sight and smell
To enjoy the flowers so
And all the bees and butterflies
Who gently come and go

So bless my little garden Lord
It gives me peace and joy
For I have prayed each night to you
Since I was just a boy

Keith Wilson
Windermere, UK 2016

There are moments,
When a scream of defiance,
Fist thrown at the heavens,
Would be the action of my heart.
I want to grab the Fates with both hands,
And shake them until they acquiesce,
Giving me the life I want,
Taking the pain, the loneliness,
The nights spent staring into
The darkness,
Silently speaking her name.
I want to run naked through fields,
Dive headfirst into unknown rivers,
Daring the thorns and rocks
To touch me,
Fighting to win a prize
I’ll never hold.
Instead, I sit here,
Pushing words around a
Paper replica of life,
Drawing passion from a well
Deeper than the heavens,
Pouring love into a garden,
And praying that it will grow,
Knowing the harvest will
Not be mine.
There are moments,
When the scream of my soul,
Is like the roar of a storm,
Howling over oceans,
Only to die in the desert
That is my life, here, now,
Silently.
My blood still pulses,
Filling dreams as strong today,
As they were before the
Graying of my body,
Before the light in my eyes
Became mostly tears.
My hands still contain caresses,
Yet to be given.
My lips and my tongue
Can still form gentle words
And soft kisses.
I am still a man.
Alas, the Fates have caged my passion,
Left the fruit of my dreams
To wither on vines, now hidden
Behind a younger forest.
Even the winds seldom reach me,
With the whispers I still long to hear,
And in my heart, I scream at the world,
When they come upon me,
Those moments.

I held you softly
as you slept
I held you gently
as you wept
I held you tightly
as you screamed
I stroked your hair
as you dreamed
I wiped the tears
that would not dry
I cried the tears
you would not cry
I took the demons
in your head
and made them
Mine instead
I need to be
by your side
don’t turn me away
I am not your Pride
I am not your Pity
I am not your Sorrow
I am here Today
I am your Tomorrow

I know you’re in there,
Hiding behind my eyes,
Filling the hollows in my head,
Making me wonder
Just who decided that I needed
More love.

Show yourself,
It’s okay,
I know you’re in there.

It’s not like I haven’t lived
With somebody else’s hands
Working the sheets,
Tacking back and forth,
Down the channel,
Trying to miss the stink *** drivers
Who can’t see passed the beer cans
In their fat, sweaty, hands.

Oh, I’ve sat at the helm,
Listening to the tactician whisper,
“Stand on, stand on, ready to come about.”
Waiting for the shout,
“Hard a’lea.”
Cutting over ‘til the compass reads
North by northwest,
Then standing on,
Standing on.


But this is different.
The whispers didn’t have a voice,
Just a presence behind my eyes,
And the call to tack came before
I was ready.
But I turned the helm,
And the sails swung to port.

There,
Sitting on the rocks,
Singing their silent, beckoning songs,
Their blue-green eyes
Flashing behind the tendrils of their
Foam, blonde hair,
Sat the Sirens of my life,
Smiling their bow-lipped, ruby smiles,
Laughing because they know
There’s no way in hell
That I won’t run a course
Straight into their laps.

You must think it’s funny,
Watching this,
Laughing at how a sailor can’t
Tell the difference between a siren’s lap,
And the Fiddler’s Green,
Laughing at me,
Behind my eyes,
Tempting me with
More love.

Your life is like a paisley scarf,
Filled with twisted teardrops,
Big and little, colored like a garden,
Blowing in the breeze.
Watching it tips my balance,
But I can’t, not watch.

So drawn to the whirlpool
Of colors and sounds that generate
All around you,
I’m like a leaf in a wind storm.
One moment dry and brittle from the
Rarified edges of the storm,
Then pulled in close,
And filled with the moist heat
Flowing from your passion,
I’m made whole and fresh again.

I want to reach out, pull myself in,
And bathe in the essence,
Emanating from the center of
Your life, then toss back my head
And learn to fly.
I want to smell, and taste, each flower
That grows from your garden,
Like a bee in the springtime.

I want to be wrapped in that paisley scarf,
And tucked into a drawer,
Right next to the things you wear
Closest to your skin,
To lie luxuriously bathed in your scent,
And I want you to think about me,
When those garments catch, and hold,
The warmth of your body.

I want to wear you like a cloak,
And watch your swirling colors
As I dance across time, and space,
Showering you with pearls,
And laughter, plucking fruit
From the mountaintops,
Feeding you with my lips.

I could spend a lifetime
Counting your colors,
Kissing your flowers,
Swirling in the vortex of
Your passion,
But instead, I watch, and wait,
Until the storm whips that scarf
Close enough for me to
Reach out and take hold.

It should have rained today,
But it was bright and windy,
With white clouds climbing
Over the mountains,
Like flocks of sheep.
I made believe I was the shepherd,
Chasing after my cloud-sheep,
Sitting on mountain tops,
Playing my flute,
A song that would make you
Smile.
But you weren’t there,
And the wind
Blew the sheep away,
And it really should have
Rained today.