will you be my notebook?
let me write on your body
the poetry of my soul,
the sensual musings of my mind…
the paper, your skin
the ink, our combined sweat
my tongue, the instrument used to pen
my words, soft kisses creating
stanzas, fingertips soliciting sighs, growls...
you like that line, caro?
i thought you would.

will you be my patient?
let me heal your heart
with mine, your body
with my touch...
i can see here
that your heart was once broken
your soul ravaged
by sweetly singing sirens
promising life-long happiness
and an end to loneliness
but who turned out to be
man-eating liars who desecrated you
and fragmented you
and hurt you
and broke you...
but with my tears, i will show you
you are needed,
you are loved.
with my kiss, i open
the door to your cage
with my lips, i break
the chains binding your heart
and with my breath, i revive
your soul, making you whole again.

will you be my eternity?
let me look forward to spending my life
with you,
graduating university
with you,
marrying
you,
honeymooning in italy
with you,
having my twins
with you,
working
with you,
waking up every morning
with you,
doing the simple things in life
with you,
growing old
with you,
dying
with you...
let me love you
all the days of my life
with my heart, body, mind, soul
with my poetry, hands, lips, breath
with the essence of who i am...

will you let me love you?
will you let me heal you?
will you let me keep you?
will you let me?
will you?

a prelude to insanity;
it slowly eats away at you
from the inside, tearing
down walls and wreaking havoc
on your psyche-

it is all of those daffodils
glaring yellow
unreachable,
and it is the sound of
an empty orchestra
in the middle of June  

it is the worms beneath
your stocking feet
and the sad birds
who haven't suffocated yet,

it is the wind chime
that sings for someone else
or the frequency
that carries the tune.

it is the sun, burning holes
in your clever retinas,
and all of those gracious porticoes
that you will never walk through.

it is the cats retching
in alleyways, and the ******
smiling across poorly lit
rooms, as they forget
to grow old.

it is all of the discarded books
with their broken spines,
it is smudged windows
and Neanderthal kisses.

it is the end of
something that was never
really yours to keep.

it is everything that you
wanted to love,
but couldn't
find the
time.

A MOTHERS ROLE
WITHIIN THE TRIBAL FAMILY

She is a warrior in her own right
Guardian
Protector
Of all that is hers
The teacher of all things
To her family
The tribe
The hunter and gatherer
Out there in the front line
With men gathering in the spoils of victory
Over Buffalo and Bison
With their child strapped
In the papoose

The Warrior mother
Has no liking for material objects
Her mind only set on what is really required
Warmth, shelter, their blankets and clothing
And all importantly the food for the family
Is enough for this warrior mother

She claims no fame
There is no gain
For she is part of the entire
Tribal family
This warrior mother
Will never put herself above anyone else
Will always be there for others in need

This mother’s role
Is the teacher of all that once was
From generation to generation
Stories to be told
Legends of warriors
Forefathers and foremothers
Telling the stories
Of how life can be
Making the children ready
For their own life’s
Ventures
Adventures
And  
Histories

© Helen Moule
1st May 2012

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.