She stands there
at the sink

I can see
the outlines
of her bra
through her blouse
at the back

Milka's mum
is talking
about the
state of
Milka's room

complaining
never seen
such a mess

I sip tea
she's poured me

if I left
my bedroom
in that state
my mother
would have slapped
my  backside

I nibble
a Rich Tea
biscuit that
Milka's mum
offers me

I forgot
Milka says
I'll do it
after this
washing up

never seen
such a room
her mother
says again

I can see
the outline
through her skirt
of *******
(Milka's not
her mother's)
the skirt's tight
about her

I dunk in
the Rich Tea
and nibble
the soft mess

just as well
Benedict's
not seen it

(I had though
the bedroom
the small bed
untidy
littered floor)

her mum says
giving me
her soft eyes
and a smile

I try not
to red blush
or let her
see that I'd
been in the room
and had ***

I study
the large broach
she's wearing

lovely broach
I utter

Milka's dad
gave it me
her mum says

Milka turns
and her eyes
look at me
and she knows
what I know
as her face
is blushing
a bright red
about the ***
on her bed.

There she flits, this butterfly
Flutters by, alights on blooms
With certain grace and eloquence.
But no more to a petal of mine.
Once, she did, many moons ago
Favour flowed upon my seasonal rose;
She'd tarry awhile, row upon row.
These days her wings soar gaily
On other climes, in other garden beds,
With the distinct exception of mine.
Perhaps this rose by any other name
Has lost its nectar, has lost its rhyme:
This garden unattractive and dry.
Farewell, fair butterfly, farewell.
Without fanfare this scorned rose
Shall shrivel away and surely die.

The earth sings on day and night,
For men to work and sleep in grace.
But when you Focus day and night
From the man-made hooded net,
One human, body, mind or spirit  
He can be but dead, or
An eternal fire kindled!

I love to swim,sleep and dream,
In this sea . . .
Forgetting past,present and future
Of gentle emotions.

If my wife had known that
She was marrying a poet
And she'd be spending the rest of her life in rhyme

I think if she had known it
It would have sent her over the edge
Or at least pretty close to the line

Poets never show it
But we never seem to grow up
I'm sure that's some sort of sign

That what goes on in our heads
Is nothing but a big mess
As we're stuck in the warp of time

I'm not sure she would have done it
The marrying of a poet
Cause who but a poet wants a life marred in rhyme

Life is stabbing me in the back
With one hand while the other one slaps
I'm not sure what to think of that
Should I cry or should I laugh

Life keeps tossing me off of the bridge
I'm getting pretty used to it
That's just the way I and life live
Been that way since we were kids

That's when it's not throwing me in front of a train
Asking those around to give it a hand
Doesn't much matter whether woman or man
Life is never too proud to beg

Of course in the city it's under the bus
Guess life thinks that a train isn't enough
While my road burns are getting calloused and tough
I always seem to keep getting up

Life even spreads nasty rumors of me
Some of what life says I find hard to believe
What really hurts is that life lives with me
So I'm always in it's company
Which makes me wonder why life's out to get me

I see words appear in the air
I ****** them up as they're floating there
Placing them gently onto the page
They help to write, what I have to say

They're mixed together with dashes and dots
Which eventually become punctuation marks
I still have a few I keep chilled in the fridge
When I need a sentence to end I crack open the lid

Apparently I'm the only one who can see
This cache of words that swirl in the breeze
Which is fine by me cause it gives me the time
To pick and choose what's needed for the perfect rhyme