Standing in a field
with big blue sky,
while the rain threatens
the children on their playground.

Swiftly my thoughts,
charging from here to there
and back again,
it isn't a matter of relaxed.

Slow poke in the ribs
that knocks the wind
across the open field,
moving towards the horizon.

Play is an unforgotten
movement that pushes me,
and who is to say
what is or isn't play.

Hold out your hand
to receive this bleeding heart.
Time to move to where the wind blows
over the horizon, if that can be done.


irving2006

My arms wrapped around you, yours around me.
We stand together in our now natural hug.
Although my height is sometimes a challenge
You feel warm; your back is straight and toned.

How does our hug feel from your side?
Does my back feel firm or yielding?
What is the sensation under your fingers?
Of the fabric next to my skin, my undergarments?

Our hug is just one
Of a striking variety we receive in a lifetime
From friends, lovers, family, near-strangers
An act seemingly simple but in truth, complex

The first hug you remember from childhood: your Mum
Warm and safe, and maybe a little squeezed
But her blouse is soft, and her arms reach around you nearly twice.
You are so small, and she is so big.

Your teen-age years, acquaintances: single arm hug
Air kisses, a quick pat, a gentle rub
It’s social hugging to keep up appearances
Feeling awkward, you’d rather shake hands

Your first true love – long, grasping, gasping embraces
That leave invisible marks on your clothing and skin underneath
A desire for another, the promise of more
Maybe in future, the touch of your fingertips on clothing-free skin.

Again a hug from your Mum, 40 years after her first
The alignment is different; somehow she has shrunk
Still warm and safe, yet with a different body tone
A kiss on her cheek is soft to your lips – a hug to last the ages.

When I was a child, my parents once said
If the sun is shining and the rain is falling
The Devil is kissing his wife
I pictured his wife as my kindergarten teacher
Mrs. Hill
That was when I could associate a name with a picture
She had a beehive style hairdo
Her hair was as tall as the Hollywood Hills
In those days when nature called during class,
You held up one finger or two
Now that I look back, did it really matter how many you held up?
Mrs. Hill didn’t respond to my hand gestures
The consequences were embarrassing
And to this day, when I see the sun is shining
And the rain is falling
I wonder if Mrs. Hill remembers
While she's kissing her husband

They're only there for pigeons to **** on them,
the blue plaques for great men
and women too.
Blue?
so they should be,
I wouldn't wish that fate on my worst enemy,
but it's not up to me,
it's up to the heritage folk.
I hope they choke on it,
I mean pigeon ****.

I'd want my name in some great hall of fame, not outside
for the elements to scratch out my achievements or
for pigeons to krap on,
(and me with no cap on)

I bet what I'll get are some words said in haste, as if
giving my story would be such a
waste.
of time.
On reflection pigeons and plaques will do for me
fine.

Drifting minds unwind till they find
Solace in the simplest of thought.
Other minds can drift from time to time
To find reason where reason is not.

He created a night for him
with the dark metaphors
his poetry tossed on to the air;
from its ember buried under ashes
oozed little by little,
two drops of scared light.

Alone, in the cocoon of the memory
of her words, he distilled and drained
the magic potion of poetic expression.

In it was ingested, the intensity
of sudden lightening
that burns down everything
in to ashes

like the tides that occur high and low
what if ,at will, single source secretes
both poison and nectar?

with your eyes mutely speaking of desire
you are deft in signalling both---
the ascent of love, that creates in me
the instant capillary rise of passion
and
love's descend, as if the monsoon has dissipated
and just a sprinkling announcing rejection!

who are you, reveal your true face
poetic trance at the moment of my inspiration
or dark poetry, gushing out on it's own
from a secret spring, deeply hidden?

The chill of an autumn morning
A rising steam as the fallen leaves exhale
The lonesome trees have given up their glory
A carpet of red, yellow, orange, and brown

An overcast sky with no definition
Is but a blur
Movement indiscernible
There is wisdom in the sky, revealed to a few

The smoke of the day’s first fire ascends
Wafting its familiar fall fragrances
Brings warmth and comfort to the soul
And campsite memories of long ago

We pass the bleak and barren cornfield
Stippled with autumn’s harbingers
The Raven
They stare with the blackest of black eyes