how many farewells
will it take to matter
less than this burning
shall warm wherever
tomorrow may takes us

A southbound 'Steel Thoroughbred' on the move again
Machinery howls in pain , echoing forever on a blustery
night along the Rico plain
I'm hearing engineers tales , the colorful stories of
the brakeman , the call of the conductor at small town stations* ..

whispers of sea
where the cold storm
gathers in the grey
sky, and the waves
pound the shore
running back
pushing down
arching like
fiery cats,
the ache of the storm
a tearful cloud
the song of
a poem.

Home is the place where all hearts turn
When Christmas comes again

The place that draws you through the fog
The snow the wind and rain

To take your place beside the fire
Wherever it may be

And hope for peace, and good cheer
And gay festivity

Year by year the same old words
Of greetings we repeat

But never seem to tire
When friends and families meet

So rejoice right through to Christmas night
And  over the world's dark shadows
Cast some some heavenly light

Keith Wilson. Windermere, UK 2016

The thought of you makes me sick.
Knowing that you're still here,
It feels like you're always at my back.
Like there's whiskey breath down my neck.

I mistake other girls for you.
Wavy dark hair,
Heavy-handed makeup,
I wonder if they regret their faces
Like I do.

In the pit
Of my stomach,
I am empty.
Feasting on whatever
Sweet nothings I can gather.

After you left me,
Hungry.
I am slow to eat,
To sleep...
With a girl
Would be to
Replace you...

I wish

I had never met you.
Every day
I am betrayed
By want.

I lust for
The best of you
And I hate
The rest.

Part of me still loves you.
And that's the part I hate.
I try to abandon her,
But she is relentless.

I reach for lipless faces
And my kisses fall, tasteless.

I look for eyes across a room,
And find my sight
Fades to black.

The crook in my nose
Cracks open.
All I smell is rust.

I cannot face you.

My face goes numb.
My skin is see-through.
People are asking me
If I'm sick.

she encourages me to draw the curtains
i'm on her couch for an hour or so
explaining to me that, "all men aren't serpents."
even if he's slithered in my bed... around my throat

reminds me, "isolation is a birdcage
he'll never know you if you're ruffled and shy"
yet, i cannot find the courage to engage
my craving for adventure is... out of supply

she listens to stubborn reasoning and woe
allows me to sit in unanswered silence
she's heartening every wednesday even though
my distaste for growth is shown through defiance