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 Jun 2014 Paul R Mott
SG Holter
First poem to Tina as my lover no more.


Three years and eight months.
My closest. My one.
She'd stayed through madness
I am a man of demons.
As I slayed the last one
I turned to see her having fallen
For the blow
As well.
Women and children
Die first.


We cry. We kiss and cry.
Make love crying.
Laugh crying.
Leaving streaks on her back
Of salty regret
As I kiss her every single
Detail farewell.
How can gratitude for love
Hurt like being hated
By a loved


I take full responsibility.
Never raised a hand, but spoke
Hard and disgusting
Bottled anger.
Her leaving makes it
Poetry; lends meaning.
I'll drink again, but the drunk
Is dead.


Today I'll come home
And forget to cook
For just one.
That Volvo will never
Come speeding down the
Gravel road again containing
Other than an ex
Coming to collect
More things that are no


No longer mine. I say like all
Others in grief: *This pain
Is new to me.

I embrace it on the floor
Holding her sweater
That I burned a little
Warming it on the stove for
Her in winter.
Then it's into the box
With it.
I'll leave a tear on her every
Garment, thanking for
The love and passion
They held within.


I look up at skies as blue
As they come.
I will live here alone.
Thanking for all the beauty,
And all we learned from
What wasn't.
All is how it should be.
This was our road to
Travel together.

Be well. Be loved. Be safe.
You owe me nothing.
Be happy for this;
There's growth in it.
You are no longer my
Girlfriend, but you'll
Always be my

"Together" was our word.
To Get Her was
My most gracious gift
Since Life.
Now let me cry
Like a child lost.
Then I'll move on,
Being neither.
 Jun 2014 Paul R Mott
Dreams* crafted
useless yesterdays
empty tomorrows

Cracks spackled
makeup and tears

Porcelain facade

... *
We're too old now.

Too old to indulge in

partitioned plastic plates

shatter resistant

but molded to hold in

three ounces of fun

per serving.

We've outgrown yesterday's

gaudy voice acting

and crude cartoon lines

washed out, two dimensional

color schemes

and character types, now

redux in high gloss CGI,

300 dpi


5.1 surrounding

both of our senses.

What's that?

We have three others?

But we've no time

for scented markers

on monochrome pages

Breakfast food no longer

simply sugar and bread

We swath ourselves

with succulent self-importance

tech savvy misanthropy

dolled up in decadent


We are too old

to go to a friends house and play.

A list of woes and throes

gives us nothing-

leaves us nowhere

except in thinking

patiently praying

that we may never outgrow

our love for the things

which we've long since outgrown.
It’s so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath.
But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I’m not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything’s fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I’ll be home by dawn.
Shiftless, sifting the air,
Plunging gyrations,
Crow speak
Hackle, hacking;
Speckles the sky.

Saw the air whittle to smoke,
Black mar in the weir of wings
And mankind muddled in the wraith,
Slowly streams a bread trail
Forth and back;
Black bleeding.

I see your claw tracks,
Plain in the muck,
Needles threading,
A trail of stars.
Hark the stalwarts bray a song to heavens far, to heavens seen,
Gone the miserys who dwell in sordid tales of wrong.
Now the thing interred is wrapped in joyous thoughts to preen,
Of *****, substantial thigh pronounced and dancing eyes in song.

She who challenges the very ground you traipes upon each day & tread,
She who walks with  angulation's undulations deftly spread,
She who wears a tongue so sharp t'would slice a hand or dice a fruit
She whose eyes would dance for thee, for thee to seek pursuit to root.

Hold that brilliant thought in cortexed fields of pain, my son
For foreplay in the wildest scheme I've seen to date, has now begun,
And should you bring the very shards of war upon me then
Despite this death, with her envisaged, I shall rise to thrive again.

In vivid recall......of a very tall and particularly comely Irish *****.
7 November 2013
The morning world in mist dissolves and under,
Towed to heaven, we, a plod below the death
Of clouds, sing mute, where they trumpet-glide
Flashing into peace.  Three-toed slabs, parched
Of orange, web the stars over the wine
Dark seas and chalk the churn and twining earth
Into gloaming.  In rapt stillness they,
Are import and income, parables,
Echoes of the innocent song sung to a spire,
Gilded hutches, to those who heap on brightness
Swans are brighter even more with blackest
Eyes, they pierce the silent shroud all starry.
I wish that we were like two swans my love,
Neck of nape, embracing without touch.
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