This poem is our story. Or is it our story?
My soul is at peace with having lost her.
Outside the rain falls, the leaves scatter in the wind,
And I dream of the kisses I could not have.

Another life. Life on an island, in the sun,
Where wine and music sharpen the senses.
Maybe I could have loved her there? Dancing,
The warm sun caressing her body like secret hands.

How could I not love her? But I know I don't love her.
I feel the distance increasing as her ship pulls away,
And the bars reappear and the island becomes a cage.
The horizon is clear; she is gone, and I feel the beauty in sadness.

We manage it in different ways,
That first initial shock…
Returning on the day after vacation.

Some of us are in a daze,
On Monday, 9 o’clock.,
On seeing the huge wave of information.

Some snuck a look at emails
While they were on the beach!
To simplify the challenge on the day…

To others that would be a ‘fail’
For all they’ve tried to teach
About work-life balance, the corporate way…

Of course there’s no right answer.
You must choose what works for you,
To settle back into the daily grind.

But read these lines, and chance a
Small change to what you do
It could just make a difference, you might find.

So, close your eyes and wait,
And think what makes you proud
Relax and breathe and gently take your time….

For me it’s too now late
And all that I’m allowed
Is commenting ironically in rhyme.

428 emails to go.
Welcome back.

My gift was my presence, rather than presents...
An echo of a simpler past
When we talked of the line between sense and nonsense,
Knowing the truth that neither could last.

Tonight I delight in her updated present.
I, shyly retiring, she wryly mature.
Watching the dream that reality sent her;
She's happy, and growing. Of that I am sure...

Hi from the plane,
Vienna again.
Thinking of how I caused so much pain.

To myself I confess
That I’m feeling the stress
Wondering if that’s now my life, more or less.

All day on the phone
And yet, so alone,
Staying so busy, no time to atone

Am I free at last?
It all went so fast.
Is this what I wanted? To destroy our past?

I still can’t believe
I could finally leave
I don’t even know if I’ll get a reprieve.

I feel like I’ve been fired
So terribly tired
And all for a myth about being inspired.

Now here while I fly,
Around me just sky,
I know I need time just to understand why.

If I died today
While running away
I ponder the things I’d have wanted to say

If this is the end
Unable to mend
I’d want you to know that you’re my best friend

I know you and care for you, think of you still.
I’ve loved you. I love you. I always will.

Him
I heard her voice, as something unexpected,
And felt, within my soul, a need to know.
I have a choice; to leave the part unacted…
Or play the role, and wonder… where I go…?

Her
I heard his voice. Reciting quiet poems,
That touch my soul, in ways he cannot know.
I had a choice, to change where I call home,
But now I’m here, home seems so long ago.

Him
I watch her. From a distance, to be careful.
We cannot touch, at least that much is clear.
I want her. The mere fact makes me fearful,
Is this too much? Can I control the fear?

Her
He watches me. I feel his eyes upon me
I feel the heat, I feel his searching gaze
Removing layers, discovering the real me;
His language, inspiring now my days….

Him
I find myself observing every movement.
Looking for truth in everything I see.
The conflict in her eyes stays for a moment
I wonder if she will discover me

Her
I must be strong, not show him my confusion
Don’t let my body give away the truth
Don’t show him how I feel with my expression
Don’t think about experience and youth

Him
I see her doubts. She looks at me imploring
She wants to stop and yet she can’t resist
She understands the danger of exploring
I realise now: a thing called ‘us’ exists…

Her
I want him. I know that he can see it
He is observing signs of my desire
I make a choice and willingly I free it
And show him: this is passion. This is fire…

Him
Suddenly I feel the balance changing;
I feel her power, see her take control.
Now I can see that we are rearranging
Our fantasies with subtly different roles.

Her
I whisper to him “take me somewhere…
A solitary place of silent peace.
A place where we can simply be together
Where you can touch me. Perhaps then a first kiss….”

*Them
Escape, together, searching for an answer,
We leave this theatre, wanting to be free…
To find our paradise where we can sense a
Consummation of the odyssey.

Do you dream of another life, My dear?
In a different world, outside?
Do you want to escape to another place
Where you can enjoy the ride?

Do you really think it exists, My dear?
The perfect place in your mind...
Do you think if you go, you’ll always know
What it is you were trying to find?

Can you try to believe in the now, My dear?
Can you feel that there’s someone there,
Who tries to inspire a kind of desire,
To make you believe that I care.

I do care about you, My dear,
Though I joke about romance and wine,
I would like you to see, if you want to be free,
You should love what you are, all the time.

Believe in yourself, today, My dear,
So beautiful, clever and fun.
Enjoy what you are, know that I’m here,
You shall have your day in the sun.

Small islands of joy in a sea of frustration and disappointment.

Sometimes I feel peace, when I can see the next destination in the distance, nearing me on the horizon and filling me with what I might call hope....

But rarely, too rarely, the journey takes me past a beautiful place, seemingly untouched in its perfection.

It is wrong to blame the fascination a place like this exerts on me, on something as clichéd as siren voices;
          there are no sirens here, no tricks, no subterfuge... rather, the clear blue sky, the pure white sand, the azure water hypnotises me with its promise, while terrifying me with its remoteness.

Do I make a decision to land? Can something so perfect continue to exist if it is disturbed, even by just one touch, one footprint?

One kiss?

I know I need to discover... But I fear... I fear myself.



*She closed her diary. "Not bad" she thought. "Might have been the sort of ******* JC would have written".

And, as she sipped her cocktail and took in the tropical view, beneath the shade of her favourite palm, she watched a small boat put-put-put away from the jetty...

And she admitted to herself:

occasionally she missed the crazy old *******.

Night-hand reaches out, enclosing, mystic, strange,
Dissolves into the air, breathing silent change.

Eyes clutch aimlessly at reflections of the grey;
Like quiet ripples, life fades away