When I was younger,
as our lips met
I was so eager
to free you
          from your fabric bonds
I was in such a hurry
to liberate you
         from the oppressive clothing
that was strangling your body
                inhibiting your beauty
                hiding the soft curves of your skin
I treated our time together
like a small child would treat a Christmas gift,
Greedily tearing away at the wrapping paper
to retrieve the object of his desire.

Unaware that anticipation can be just as rewarding
as the reward itself

My priorities have shifted
          I've learned

Let me just lay next to you
admire you as you bite your lip
   enticing a kiss.

    Just a small one

Let me run my hand down your arm
as my fingers find yours and
   i n t e r t w i n e

Let me watch as your eyes follow mine
into the place where no words
need be spoken

I want to listen to your heartbeat
                   There's no need to rush this.

I want to get lost with you in this moment

                 Just for a bit

Before we're lost in the passion of the night

Words set to music
give the body tonic--
poetic melody:

rhymes, rhythms, caesuras,
meters, beats, stanzas
and envoys
in use.

Making millions of dollars
off an album,
platinum
pop stars:

hounded by paparazzi,
landed in a Jaccuzi;
deified are poets--

pursued by Muse's mustang
midst the prairies
of inspiration
trotting.

Poetry draws no pretty penny,
prizes like the Nobel
praise.

Mummy poetry is exhaling
in the lyrical pantheon
of music.

Explore the well-worn tracks leading to the mines
The stone-arched gateways to the shafts
The ruined smelt mills and the tips,
Remnants from a bygone time

Say a little thank you to the men who built and trod these paths
For their lives were often short and their work was hard
Imagine you can hear them sing as they wind on through the hills
And hear their clogs against the stones echo down the gylls

Look down, now the only sound the water as it rushes
Look up to the heather moor and the hillside hushes

Mini squadrons of cackling grouse fly off everywhere
Where once the lead was teased from underground
Now it's fired into the air

so many years older than me
first born
tragically...
he had five little sisters
he meant the world to me

I was 12 when he left me

Not really, he didn't leave
He was torn from my arms
in tragedy
There was no mystery
he lost his life to another
a driver, who was persecuted
to live and bear the insanity
of losing a mate
I might forgive, I might hate
but I live a half life without him
My brother ...

He'll never meet my family
My husband who he would never,
ever approved of but would have loved
because they both loved me

He never met his neices and nephews
because he was only 18
when he said goodbye
He never had his own
princes or princesses
he ended his years on earth
I like to think, on a high

But how high do you fly
when life had only just begun?
He had his baby sisters
like chicks in a nest
I often think he regrets
looking down on us
that he wasn't there
to prevent the pain
he witnessed when we found
a boy that hurt us
I like to think he'd be glorious
in his ire to avenge us
I know I'm not the only one

Gone from this earth too soon...

His Mum and Dad fractured
No parent  wants to bury their children
it doesn't seem right
but what kept them going
was their 5 daughters
as each goes on
then into the dark
they know they're not alone
He's there, holding the lantern
shining bright
welcolming them home
One by one
He's our light

I miss him every single
God ****** day!
It's been over  30 years
but what can I say?

Being a girl
that was a princess
to a soul so sweet
I miss him
with every heartbeat

he slammed his cup on the counter  
not to get anyone’s attention
though his cup was empty  
I couldn’t stop staring at his eyes  
of course they were bloodshot  
and of course he stank of nicotine
and of truth that he said could not be found
in the bottom of that coffee cup or bottle of gin  
though he ****** up both  like…
hell, I can’t compare it to anything  
and he would think a simile was a waste of words
he told me of a lover he once had, Elisa  
with hair so long she sat on it  
and a thirst as ravenous as his  
which led her to an alley in South Chicago
where the ***** or the H put her to sleep
for good, and how he buried her in Peoria
in a hard freeze, beside her brother
who got killed in Phu Bai, by “friendly fire”
but Bukowski laughed through his tears
when he heard that ****, “friendly fire”
and he filled his glass again,
with Bourbon I guess--I wasn’t at  Elisa’s
numb mother’s house that day
and when he lost another ****** lover
to a drunk driver, he didn’t say anything about irony  
just said, ****, it hurts to be close  
and he didn’t trust this happiness ****
because it didn’t last, but pain, hell,
you can count on that ******* and if he leaves,
you can make some up on your own…  
the waitress filled our cups to the top
so there was no space for the cream  
I sipped slowly to make room
he took a swig that had to scald his tongue
but I could not tell, for he was already on the death
of lover number three, sitting there with me  
waiting for him to stop the foul flow of truth