The cut is yet deep.

Standing in the crowd holding her hopes like a child with a balloon
the rain wet street mirrored on her cheek
she sees only ghosts and memories around her.
Her soul contorts and twists under the weight of her loss
weeping for that which was
and faded dreams lie in litter at her feet.

Shadowy solace hovers impotently
loath to approach lest he be burned in her cold fire.
Her thoughts hang in strands:
"O, fountain blood be my salve
for hollow loneliness is my home"
Unheard, unheeded, unreleased
they echo and play across her mind in metallic tones.

And the cut is yet deep.

Pain sings in her heart
marking her world with it's dissonant pallette.
Bright and brittle, with a lover's hunger
offering a seductive embrace she can no longer resist.
Siezing to it's sharpness and brilliance like a keepsake
she draws it to her willingly
and loves it.

But hers is not the step, the end, the sleep.
"I am queen here" she cries to an unknowing world
"Heed me, for I shine"
and shaking off the woe she turns from the path.
Fierce Nike takes her hand and leads her forward,
onward to a new beginning, a new season, a new hope.
For yes, the cut is yet deep
but cuts will heal with gentle touch
and even scars may fade in the sun.

A life hangs painted on the wall of the world
made in brush and texture on the canvas
the hills and trees and rivers of experience
are drawn broad and large.

Bright points of detail shining in brighter colour,
memories sparkle like sunlight on water.
Standing out in jewels are snooker and cribbage and beer.
Jokes and stories are picked out like light on leaves
and mended bikes and late night lifts glow as flowers against the shadows.

No more trees or hills will find their way onto this view.
No more flowers or rivers will gleam or wind.
It is complete and we must see
though artist's brush is stilled and colours dry
the memories will remain undimmed and firm
and love will keep the picture clear.

We stand here now and mourn the artist's passing
but our heavy hearts are eased by the gleaming landscape before us.
And it is to our own pictures we must turn
and save that we keep the memories bright
and at the close we ensure our lives
may at least approach the beauty of my Father's painting.

Selene casts her silver cape across the sky and gazes coldly
as bats exchange their hanging world for dance,
flashing over the sable sky in half-seen streaks.
Lights rash across the land and man's fear of darkness breaks the night
with candle, lamp and fluorescence.

What dimly remembered horrors stalked the hours
and drove us fearful and small into the firelight's globe?
What beasts, what demons stood beyond the reach of sight
and kept us huddled, staring back until the dawn?

Selene passes on and weeps for her wasted beauty,
her cape faded and shrunken in the waxing day.
Saving her perfect desire in starry softness,
she prepares herself with eager hope and prays
there will be someone who steps outside the light
and, looking up, remembers how to love the night.

holding each other
we kissed away our friendship
I mourn for it now

The sun touched the ground
and turned the world to ashes
the domed tower stands.

Taking our place in the rainbow world
our wandering concern will fall on love
and with shaking hands we survey the prize
we hope that life will render.

 The passionate kind
filled with pounding blood and sighing breath
tight and sharp and quick
caring not for time or place. 

The cold kind
with eyes of white fire and lofty mien
protective, stern and strong
given freely and broken never. 

The fierce, angry kind
glassy and bright
that breaks into beautiful shining pieces
and glories in the pain of its destruction. 

The soft and yielding kind
brimming with warmth and constancy
giving comfort without cloy and light without glare
and asking nothing. 

That we choose is ours and ours alone
and our fate we freely hold
until another's gift we enviously eye
and see that choice can have its edge.

The cutting winds of nascent March
bend the trees in gleeful rage
stripping buds and breaking boughs
to build its hard and bitter stage.

On which it prances proud and stern
giving out of seasons cold
playing parts both good and bad
and caring less as it grows old.

Until at last it's April's part
and soughing mild replaces chill
to rain and song the stage is given
and golden blooms the branches fill.

Now the year turns new to newer
a glowing carpet swells the host
the biting act is wholly done
and Spring's the star we cheer the most.

How many puppies have you kicked?
How many times have you turned
away from those who asked
your friendship
your succour
your help?

How often have you used
that quick easy smile that belies the hardness within
and sheds no light
on those that seek it?

How many times have you used
your voice
your eyes
your weapons
to hurt?

I ask once more:
how many puppies have you kicked?
And how many of them came back
meek
supplicant
like me
to be kicked again?

Your face is the first thing I see
on waking with the morning
and the last thing my tired eyes can hold
as they lose their grip on the day.

I carry the colour of your hair
like a flag to lead me through the hours
until I can its proud glory bring back to you
and lay it at your feet.

You have been my solace and my soul
and so often my reason for rising
you have kept me from the depths I might have found
and made me raise my face to your light.

You are my love and my friend
my rock and my home
you are my life and my heart and my world
Will you be my valentine?

I search the world for your eyes and find it bare
There is nothing in it that can match the light
that shines for all but I would wish were mine

I taste the water bursting from the spring
and never know the sweetness of your lips
or see in sparkle any like your smile

I search the snow for shapes of you and find no sign
Its frozen form can never hold the grace
or softness that is yours and held from me

The wind I search for traces of your scent
Its life I'd gladly change for just one breath
that moves and plays so softly through your hair

The things I seek exist not in the waking world
but solely in my dreams and in my heart
that weeps for love and will not ever rest

Standing on the shaking edge
the jumper gazes at the beckoning plunge
tilted on indecision

with racing heart he gropes forlornly
for the hope and light he means to leave
reaching into it for a reason

inches bring him closer to the step
the hardest last too hard to take
breath crushed by knowledge

the void pulls him and with a keening cry
the balance tips and he's free
and air screams past him with taunting voice

the fall stretches his withered soul
and trailing his despair like smoke
he grows ever closer to his decision

the end comes with thunder and pain
and in the final moments he looks up at billowing silk
with something approaching love.

I laughed in the rain today.

I saw that I was free
to laugh or cry
to smile or frown
to walk or run
to sleep or dream

Free from sorrow
free from pain
free from you.

I laughed in the rain today.

Grimly the silent crowd paces the familiar path
their faces fixed on some imagined horizon
they flow like water
around bins and blockages and around those who stand
briefly entranced by shining windows
gazing at glittering treasures
eyes lit by reflected streetlight.

The measured tread echoes in their heads
each with its own rhythm
but part of the dark symphony of progress
every mind focused on getting there
getting through
making it
making sure that none takes their place.

The dull streets carry the flood
as it moves like a hunched beast
shuffling mutely toward the holes in the ground
pouring down the gaping throat
into smoke and noise and heat.

And those of us who stop and watch
suddenly aware of the futility
stare in horror as we wonder what happened to our hopes and dreams
and , rejoining the march of the ******
we cling like drowning sailors to the floating thought
that we may be trudging life's filthy pavements but in our hearts we fly.

In the garden,
an old man sits
head bowed over a book.

And the breeze softly turns the page.

His eyes
that no longer heed the author's words
that once knew beauty and tears and smiles
are dim.

And the breeze softly turns the page.

His hand
that once fitted perfectly another's,
that remembered the warm softness of a baby's hair
and the icy clasp of snow
is cold.

And the breeze softly turns the page.

His heart
that once beat with the rhythm of passion and excitement
and the gentler cadence of love
is still.

And the breeze softly closes the book.

When she turned her gaze upon me,
I was a mote of dust
caught in a beam of sunlight
I was huge and beautiful
and bright.

I laughed and danced
and shone.

And when she turned away,
a cloud moved across the sun
and I was extinguished.