There,s  a  chill  in  the  air.
I  just  felt  it  out  there.
Autumn  introducing  Itself.
The  sun  came  out
for  a  fleeting  moment.
Then  it  turned
suddenly  chilly  again.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

Your love is addicting –
like…
******* in my beard
on a Tuesday night.

Teach me to see
as an infant:
I need everything to be
for the first time again.

I want to watch you bleed –
into the subtext and margins
of my notebook
so we can dispense with the periods.

Your sweat is bitter
like dreams deferred,
but I still long to lick
your mind and taste your voice.

Gentle, soft
       like a kiss
            a mist
                  from heaven
Rain......................................

Cj 2016