give me five minutes i said and
the glass, notempty, stared back
   americans at the bar
   refused to be quiet
as the poem forced itself through the belgian air
brussels they said is where
it all comes together - the barmaid, watching me silently, agrees
       difficult not to see that 0-0 result as a judgment, a prediction an omen

no score?

i'd hoped for more

Chicago is
beautiful
in the snow
she shivers
at the bar
sees him
she didn't know he'd be there
secretly he planned this
they greet
he sits at the bar
buys her a drink
cocktail
he drinks prosecco
they talk
she's still cold
makes a comment about never getting warm
he hesitates
convincingly
then suggests
he could warm her
silence
long silence
she looks ahead
not meeting his eyes
turns
says softly
ok
he stands
takes her hand
a gentleman
no words
silence
takes her through the lobby
leading her
holding only *******
she follows
not resisting
thinking she should
but not acting
the elevator
their eyes don't meet
fingers barely touching
9th floor
room
door opens
they step inside
close the door
she turns
he holds her tight
one hand on the back of her head
the other her waist
her face on his shoulder
holding
warming
communicating
without words
or movement
she looks up
his eyes are closed
she asks
"what are you thinking?"
he says...

"Are you not woman enough to know?"

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.

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.

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.

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

Darkness slowly encroaching.
A small island of light, illuminating her hands.
An office chair moving back and forth as she talks, animating her conversation with gestures.

Half smiles, one mocking, the next conspiratorial.
Eyes that flash between shyness and flirtation.
Her neck, smooth and perfect.
He rises, and walks to the back of the chair, standing behind her.
Joking but not joking about watching her, about wanting her.
About touching her.

Freeze that moment.
No, not freeze. the word is too cold in this too long winter.
Hold still, and listen to the expectation in the silence.
Sense the breathing, chests gently rising and falling.
Watch skin flush slightly red as they pause.

Feel their knowledge...

Will she turn?
Will she ever turn?

I wandered past her window, and whispered "Guten Morgen"
She looked up with a shiver, and said “I felt an *****”
I smiled and said “Romantic!... Most likely t’was your heart?”
She shook her head. “Regretfully, it was another part”.

I was surprised; “Pray tell”, I said, “which ***** made you quiver?
Could it have been your brain? Your pancreas or liver?”
“I think not” she replied again; “T’was something I don’t need
The thing that has no function when I try to feed or breed:

It’s clear that you remind me of a still day on the wind farm.
To me you’re my appendix. In German that’s a Blinddarm”.

There are two ends to every banana.

The first end, the symbolic, sensual side of the story, the beginning, contains goodness and promise.

Watch, carefully, as the fruit is peeled and slowly consumed, absorbed into the body with gentleness and love.

Eyes meet as the awareness of the message dawns.

She flushes, suddenly conscious of meaning, unable to take it out of her mouth, her body, but acutely aware of his eyes, his thoughts, his desire.

The second end, the real end, is final, slightly sad.

The fruit has been partially eaten, and he holds the remnants hopefully, wanting to be of use.

She had need of the energy – in a few minutes she will be running, running away perhaps – and now she is preparing herself mentally and physically for the challenge.

She is in control. He waits. She leaves….

He has lost her. The skin, slowly changing colour, offers itself as yet another symbol.

He slips away.

"It's a story of obsession." Sophie said, not able to look her friend in the eyes.

"The trouble is, I'm not sure whose obsession".

She stared at her espresso, stirring it absent-mindedly with the spoon. Eva looked worried, and studied her carefully. She had noticed a change in Sophie over the last few days, and they had finally found time to sit and talk. Her interrogation had begun in a light tone of voice, an easy
approach...

"...so who is he? have you slept with him yet?"…

Sophie’s reaction had been surprising - not the amused grin she had expected - much more a defensive glare, as if the question had been rude: and they had quickly decided to go for a coffee in the city.

And now, in a pavement café somewhere in the anonymous downtown, she listened to the start of the story.

"I've hardly seen him" Sophie continued "and I don't know if I ever will properly…".

She hesitated.

"I don't even know if I want to see him…".

"It is almost as if I am a character in a story; sometimes I feel like he is manipulating me, creating emotions within me that I didn't know I could feel… and I hate him for that. I mean he hasn't touched me… he hasn't even said he wants to touch me. The relationship, this thing, has gone from a harmless flirt to…"

She shook her head. Eva didn't say anything. She waited. Around them, she could hear city traffic noises, birdsong and snippets of conversation from passers-by.

Sophie raised her head and looked directly at her friend. Her face was set. She said in a low but firm voice

"it needs to stop before I lose control, but..."

" … what?" said her friend softly.

"I need to know what happens next"

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...

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.

I had a dream of walls of white,

I panicked and I couldn't quite

Reach for the line you threw for me.

I woke. Then almost instantly

I saw your face. A summer hill

Beneath you, swayed, but you were still.

I looked into your eyes and cried,

I felt my cancer grow inside.

I ran and ran until I fell.

I couldn't catch your carousel.

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 *******.

Fleeting were the moments, that they could call their own.
Secretive, the rendezvous; no time to be alone.
Passionate, the contact. So hot and sweet and tense.
Liquid, the exchange... affecting every sense.

Now, losing the connection, they look back at the dream.
They question the affection that made those moments seem
The focus of obsession. As days and weeks advance
He has just one more question: "Does he have one Last Chance?"

He looks out of the window, a cityscape in view...
Is he alone? For ever? Can what he did be true?
Watching the silent sunset, he is beautiful and free.

You are out there, somewhere.

I'm here. Just me.

If a viper’s breath in the morning
Can swim through a haze of dust
And a man can dream of a heat that seems
To **** at the airborne rust,

If a metal laugh in a darkened room
Can make the sun part of the night,
Then a thought can escape from the metronome
For it has the power of flight.

There's a screaming in your ears,
There's an image in your mind
Of a whirling,
Spinning,
Swirling
Deep emotion.

One moment close to tears,
And then suddenly you find
You're swaying,
To-and-froing
With the motion.

It is then you must decide,
Whether what you feel inside
Is strong enough
To cause you
To let go.

Or would it be suicide?
Would you survive if you collide
With your wall?
Am I worth it?

Do you know?

Is this boring? Is this sad? Is this life I lead so bad?
To see the world through windows...Is a glimpse all that I've had?
As I try to mark the seasons, leaves change from green to red
And I try to know the reasons, but I raise questions instead...

I rush my way through airports, from taxis to hotels,
From conference to coffee rooms; perhaps there's nothing else?
Perhaps all that we ever see, is never really true,
And the best that we can hope for is a window with a view...

To show you a thought from the room with white walls
I will open the door.
But first you must meet me half way along
The white corridor.

And then if you catch through the gossamer shroud
A glimpse of my theme,
We will tear down the web of my solitude
And share the white dream.

Half close your eyes, and red and white
Become the colours of the night.
Distractedly observe the glow
Of laundrettes, chippies, chemists go

Flashing by the rain-streaked glass
And disappear into the past.
Green, amber, red, you nod your head
And twenty others sway in time.
A sordid stage, the characters
All acting out a complex mime
Of barriers that self contain
Each separate universe of pain.

Now focus in, and analyse
The backs of heads (can't see their eyes),
And wonder if they'll ever see
The night-lit, street-time poetry.

Relishing a challenge
Requiring deeper thought;
Refining my assumptions
Re: all that I’ve been taught.
Relying on my memory (!)
Recalling what we’ve seen,
Realising I feel close to you, my
Rhapsody in Green.
Rewarding, this connection,
Resolving to be bold,
Risking just a little step -
Relief I’m not too old…?
Removing all the prison bars
Results in…. I don’t know?
Romancing may be just a game –
Resist? Or let it flow?
Rich here, my confusion,
Richer still, your eyes…
Rushing I fall into them so
Rashly. Is that wise?
Recovering, I feel better -
Regrets? I’ve none so far.
Reply with just one letter?
You
R

She was so tired.
Somehow the panic of packing and the stress of rushing to the station, coupled with meeting after meeting at work and a run of nights where she never seemed to get enough sleep... had led her close to an exhausted collapse.

She sat now at a window seat on the train, mindlessly contemplating the stream of images through the glass, and allowed herself to close her eyes.

She felt a delicious, almost liquid sense of relaxation start to take control of her body, she felt the muscles on her face lose their tension, and in her dozing she felt herself thinking of the evening before.

Briefly, very briefly he had stood behind her while she typed. A hint of a fingertip on her shoulder for the tiniest of moments was again a symbol that in fact they couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow themselves to touch...

But here, safe on the train, away from colleagues and pressures, in the sanctuary of her imagination, she turned to face him.

And they kissed.

She ****** awake; she felt flushed, aroused. And she was suddenly very aware that she wanted him very much.

Sleep? ****.
**** sleep.
She wanted to sleep with him.

Occasionally you meet someone who takes your breath away.
And then you must decide: "would it be right to say?"
Would it be right to mention, to tell her how you feel?
Or best avoid emotion. Stay silent. Don't reveal...?

In fact, I've no agenda. Nothing I expect...
Just want to introduce myself, perhaps win her respect.
And tell her that she's beautiful; to me she is a vision,
And if that makes her happy then I've made the right decision.

I said it! Oh... She's sceptical, she's heard it all before.
The older guy starts being nice, then suddenly wants more.
I tell her I'm professional. A gentleman, and pure.
I'll never cross the boundary; of that she can be sure.

She trusts me... When I'm next in town she does agree to meet!
She brings me to a bar that's high above the busy street,
A view that is spectacular; I take her for a drink
A chance to tell our stories, to make her laugh and think.

I promised her this poem. Now finally, it's sent.
I use these lines to open up and tell her what I meant....
When I told her "you're beautiful" the truthful reason why -
Was meeting her above the world, and seeing her smile high...

I know what she will say.
She will say: she has moved on, found another, there is no return.
I know what I will say.
I will say: I understand, there is no other way, and I will learn.

I know what she will feel.
She will feel: regret and pity for me; but the shadow of her new love protects
I know what I will feel.
I will feel: regret and pity for me; but the shadow of her new love projects.

I know what she will do.
She will: leave, silently, sadly, having said her piece.
I know what I will do.
I will: sit, silently, sadly, having lost my peace.

I know where she will go.
She will go: to him.
I don’t know where I will go.

I like the thought of silence
Of talking without words
I like the thought of listening to you

I like to watch your inner peace
When formulating thoughts
I like the way you tell me what you do

I like to take you in my arms
And hope to put things right
To put behind me everything I’ve said

I like the way you seem so calm
When we’ve just had a fight
I like to think that I am in your head

I like the way my fantasies
Take us both on a ride
A journey which I want us both to share

I like the way your clear bright eyes
Can look at me inside
I like it... that you are there.

walk around and breathe the air,
learn it

make your perfect picture then
burn it

forget the broken dreams, think of an open road

petrol bomb your memories and leave a note in code

flick a switch and listen to the city music play

and don’t regret a thing; the place was full of wankers anyway

So it’s Spring
Lovely thing
Urge to sing
But eyes sting
Annoying

Let the sweet snow touch your sad eyes
Let the darkness hide the pain
Let my kisses serve to make you wise
Let us dream this, once again.

There is a secret, private time, when I’m allowed to dream…
The room is dark and quiet, but sleep will not arrive…
My eyes adjust to darkness and I make out the faint gleam
Of moonlight through the curtains. I feel then most alive….

And that is when I think of her; she has become my muse
This time of inspiration is when she seems most clear
I think then of our story: which images to use?
And that is when I fantasise… that she is with me here

My mind fills up with memories, snatched moments from the past
Of when our eyes met in a room, or when I touched her skin.
I think of what I’ve written, and if I’ve been too fast
In moving her, persuading her … to let me in.

My love for her is virtual; it takes place in my mind
But Oh! she is so beautiful, it seems so very real
I see her eyes, her limbs, her smile in everything I find,
She has a power over me that seems to make me feel

Intensely. We communicate in many different ways
Through music; coded messages, by which we almost kiss
I almost taste her lips, her tongue, I almost stroke her face
I almost hold her tightly in my arms. I always miss.

And so I feel the gravity, I can’t resist the power
I see the darkened, northern sky, I see her guiding light
I see her face before me in the lateness of the hour
I feel her lips close to my ear, whispering… goodnight.

She cried. I don't know why:
I was confused, I waited.
I tried to kiss her eyes,
I felt used, I contemplated

Lots of actions; none seemed right
I left her body, moved away.
By her reaction perhaps I might
Have seen I shouldn't stay.

She wouldn't talk. I didn't ask.
I dressed and watched her face.
She tidied, she had her mask
Held rigidly in place,

And I could not see through it.
She asked me quietly to leave,
Forever. I didn't do it:
How could I believe

She wanted me to go?
I was hers for the taking.
I wonder, does she know

I'm breaking?