When you can feel it, but unable to express it
When you cherish it's softness, the tenderness from which it comes
Yet pleasurable to experience more of it,
Because if it is never experienced there is no love,
The beauty of love is pain,
Both intermingled and it's so subtle to differentiate the two,
For the Harmony of it brings the rhythm
The missing and the pain, the feeling that it can never be consumated yet the in depth of heart it still exists
It is a melody a very slow one without which I would never live today
It's the memory, the shared little things that holds me together,
The knowing that you are happy at another 's hands is itself a joy
For in your smile I live
I live in every thing you do,
The care you give, though I may not be there yet it is so wonderful to know you cherish the values we shared together,
Every little mistakes we committed and corrected and the coordination with which you made me write a story
A story that has so many colours
And for bringing back to life
The energy and the zest for life
The little things you told will itself sing as a song
For in that song lives a life
A life that wants to still live
For in your happiness I live.

Our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy, had six pups and despite the grey on her muzzle, produced enough milk for them all. She would take her bowl to the sink when thirsty, tinned-meat to the can-opener when hungry. When tired, she would sprawl out on a rug before the coal fire, on occasion, licking her master’s feet before falling asleep.
     Sometimes, I would rest my head upon her chest, listening to her breathing. In her dreams she would sometimes yelp softly and I would soothe her nightmares away by stroking her sleek black coat.
In our garden, during the pleasant sunshine of a warm afternoon, we used to play together. Throwing a tennis ball that she would chase then fetch back and drop in my waiting hands for me to throw again. This was by far, her favourite game.
     Some considered that she ran out in front of the School Teacher’s speeding car deliberately. “Because of her age,” they said, and “her inability to cope with the pups, only just turned two weeks old,” — that my mother reared, against all predictions.  
     I never accepted this nonsense. At the time, such a thing never crossed my mind as I looked at her, sprawled across the roadside verge. Her eyes were open, but through my tears I could see they were sightless. I also saw the muddy tyre-print across her unmoving ribs and how her legs twisted at an unnatural angle. I could not help my crying, but I felt no shame: none at all.  
     The sad regret I saw in the School Teacher’s red-rimmed eyes did nothing to ease my pain.  If anything, her sorrow made me feel even worse. I felt guilty because I wanted to hate her. Perhaps I did hate her! I can barely remember now. With the passage of time the pain and the hate, if indeed there was any hate, has faded.
     Whenever I pass our old house, where Moss is buried in the garden in which she played, I recall our times together and give her good thoughts. For good thoughts are all that I have for our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy.

If, whenever out, maybe driving about,
On encountering road-rage, never worry,
Claim that you are, Ronnie Pickering,
They should drive off, as if in a hurry.

Although, if they ask, Ronnie Pickering?
Looking bewildered, unsure who you are,
Do a convincing, Pickering impression,
An apoplectic beetroot escaping its jar.

Start ranting and raving, making threats,
No need to reveal, considered, justification,
Rage like a gargantuan, ignorant, imbecile,
Before storming off, in bitter frustration.

Remember, while out, always take care,
If encountering, squabbling or bickering,
If the people resemble blustering bullies,
One, could possibly be, Ronnie Pickering.

Are we to blame for what we do?
Can we help what we do? Can we?
Maybe, maybe not, we would suffer,
Oh yes, you think you miss me now?
You never know love, not really,
Until it is removed, forbidden,
Taken away far beyond reach,
Only then do you see, finally see,
Once you have lost that which you had,
Or even imagine you have lost it,
Only then do you understand,
How much you cared, cherished,
Adored, depended upon, needed,
That illicit love, that yearned for love,
The kind of love that is so rare,
It comes only once in a lifetime,
If one is lucky, very lucky,
So, even though, we do what we do,
Have changed who we are, irrevocably,
I doubt we will ever stop, not ever,
And there is no blame to apportion,
No disgust, no reprehensible behaviour,
There is just us, us, and how we feel,
Are we to blame for what we do?

©Paul M Chafer 2016

Purring, the big cat, prowls though the city,
Her grace resonating in the words of youth,
The rhythm of life beating within her heart,
Pulsing in the melting ***, of cultural truth.

Unwholesome disenchantments; dispelled,
Crushing obsolete views of old generations,
One World, concepts, sweeping all before,
Welcoming the progress of mixed relations.

A Bohemian feline of change, so constant,
Wisdom, truth, acceptance, riot in her roars,
New wave embracing, all colours, all creeds,
Bigoted ignorance fearing sharpened claws.

The multi-faceted face, of free London now,
Don’t hate those who sneer, offer them pity,
Their time disperses on Thames ebbing tide,
Purring, the big cat, prowls through the city.

©Paul M Chafer 2016

Where are you, perfect piece of writing?
I read of you when I was a boy, long ago,
Naked youngsters on horseback, waiting,
Hidden in shadows at the meadow’s edge,
Then they go, aware of danger, scared,
Moonlight dancing upon their skin, cool,
Nightjars and bats swoop low, hunting moths,
And the youngsters ride, he observing her,
So beautiful to describe, and yet, you are gone,
Long ago, lost in my mind, yet I remember,
And I wonder, what you are, if you are,
And will I ever read you again, savour you?
Where are you, perfect piece of writing?

©Paul M Chafer 2016

Take a few steps to make a high leap
Fall many a time but get up and continue
Hop a bit, stroll a bit, run a bit
It's not the method that is important
However tired and shabby it becomes
Life is a quest to learn new things
Each time you fall and get excited
When new chapters are written
But in this infinity path the little and the great trials matters
As each polish and mould every thought we take
While still making evident the wonderful and diverse pleasures of the world
To be perfect is an utopia but to strive to experience variety is a quest a longing that stretches and pushes us towards the meaning of life.

Holding the poetic sword

Started reflecting on the much-divided heart

Into a brain storming question

Should responses be elicited

Or simply succumb to a passive slavery

Heart unleashed into two divided answers

One to confront with strong resolution

And the other to run away in steady flights

Duty towards society beckoning

Fear of being judged resisting

Mind unfurled its reasoning and logic

Voice it on one side and no you will be nailed on the other

Emotions played its music on

Be a humanitarian it sung its song

No you will get entangled into a web of trouble echoed logic self

Confused the body stood still

And then performed its decision

Interrogating such a response

The heart and mind stood in reconciliation.