What are you when you've got nothing?
Who are you when you've got no one?
Where do you stand when you're standing alone?
Where do you go when you've got no place to call home?

Well, you're only human and I can't blame you for that.
And you've always got me, and that's a fact.
I'll stand by you even if you're standing alone.
And you'll always have my heart to call your home.

1
dearest readers online
be forewarned
when you read a poem
there may be irony ahead
and if you don't look out
yes, it can be like you've
run against an iron pole
smack bang against the forehead
(which may not matter if you're Ironhead)
but if you're anything like me
flesh and blood and heart -
Ouch! It can more than hurt!)



2
be forewarned also
when you read a poem
it can be like
driving in a school zone
when the kids are going home -
so watch out:
irony may be walking with persona
and the literal with metaphor
and maybe a figurative pig round the corner
and sarcasm hand in hand
with opposite-of-what's-being-said



3
so do drive alert
eyes open, mind open
when in Poetry Land
O most intelligent reader
for you never know
in the thoroughfare of poetry
who you might
just bump into:
Mr Alternative;
Mr So-in-your-face;
Ms I-Want-to-Talk-About-God-Yet-Again;
Vicar There's-No-******-God;
Mr and Mrs Moralist;
Mr and Mrs Hey-Let's-Have-***-While-at-Poetry
like-they-do-in-the-back-seats­-at-the-movies -
and so on, you know:
It can be like being Alice in Wonderland
with the Mad Hatter
but you got to keep your sanity
for company

yep, stay alert
or you might just crash your Reading




4
An Afterthought

and I know
wise reader
all the above might make me sound
like Mr-know-all
but hey! - modesty's never been
the poet's professional trait
(you must think about that -
cos even the poet devoted entirely
to Subjects Divine and Holy
and of Such Lofty Things
and exuding sweet humility
is ****** arrogant -
cos they do implicitly or explicitly claim
they know what really matters,
while you or I don't)

The beach stays here all day when I am at work and does its thing.
Waves back and forth.
Birds on the water.
Surfers.
People taking pictures.
Walking.
Throwing ***** for their dogs.
But the beach stays here even if I am not here to see it.  
Waves like breaths in out in out.
So alive.
It has its moods. Has its rests and is quiet.
Changes the sands like brushing its hair.
Flat and smooth sometimes and messy and ruffled when the wind and the people feet mess it all up.  
Then the tide comes in and smooths it down again.  

It reaches towards me at high tide beckoning, calling me, reminding me it is there.
At low tide it goes back into itself and takes care of business.
Maybe the tide pools are exposed maybe not.
It doesnt care.
The beach the bay is taking care at low tide.
Reconstituting.
Recycling, reclaiming itself.

Being adopted I was loved
I was loved by my birth mother
She could not see a way to fit me in her life.

Being with a married man
I am loved by him.
I am loved.
And he cannot see a way to fit me in his life.

I am in limbo
I do not belong in my home of 25 years.
I do not belong in my beloveds world
I do not belong in the world of my 20something daughter.

I need to find my home again.
I need to belong somewhere.
I am the wrong person to give up on, to give away
I am so wonderful to have around.
I am funny and delightful but still
I am a little messy, a little teary, a little silly.

I have no choice but to take on this task.
Its this task or die or drink heavily,
A quest for my home.
A quest for this love of mine
For it will heal me
Forever.

And the more I lied,
about not loving you,
the more it hurt.
But I did it,
for myself.
And every word,
that spilled out my lips,
was like blood,
from an uppercut.
But to tell the truth,
I rather that pain,
than the one I felt that night.
Because that night,
I gave it all,
and you gave it all,
right back.
So I’ll face you,
and our friends each day,
like my heart is,
was,
never sore.
But each day,
it ***** the life from me,
right from my very core.