You come home late in your short skirt
You're such a flirt, that's what really hurt
I pretend to be asleep as you enter
You see at this game I'm a beginner
In my universe you've become the center
I'm never sure what to say or do
When I get the blues
So I act a fool

Under your breath you start to giggle
You crawl in bed and start to wiggle
My emotions get so fickled
  Inside I start to cringe
Cuz you need to make amends
Fast asleep I still pretend
Yet I guess you have your plan
And it's all that I can stand
When you whisper "You're my man!"

Don't wake me from this dream
It's not a bad dream
Hell I don't know what it means
First I start to waste away
Then you feel the need to play
Perhaps I'll figure life out someday...

When she brushed his hand aside, he had to think;

to search the heart, adrift in the body,
to find a way that would make things clear,
but all that came was a breath of air
,
and it carried with it some words,
 spoken with resignation,
that spelled a plea:
  
   “don’t make me beg”, he said.

Half a world away, a man rested beside a woman.

she looked up at him and brushed his hand
 along her breast.

when it came to rest, at last
, along a thigh and probed between,

she brushed his hand aside, and breathed

a breath of air that said,
 “don’t…”
a moment passed, maybe three.


“make me beg…”, she whispered.

20 September 2013

Would I want to be anywhere else right now?
No, probably not
The title says it all. Serenity
Sat here on a little wooden bench, just me
Oh, and ducks, geese, squirrels,  countless birds
The real beauty is that they don't curse, yell, hurl abuse
Yeah, I see the odd squabble over something as trivial as a piece of pond ****
But nothing malicious in it, it's just their way
It's not just the birds and animals here
It's the peace, the chance when for a few minutes, an hour maybe you can shut out the world and all its problems
This is how it should be
How it should always have been
Bird songs, the wind rustling in the leaves
What composer dead or alive could have written music so beautiful
As the afternoon sun filters through the canopy of green
The rustling moving leaves paint an ever changing picture
A picture that will never see a gallery nor grace the wall of a stately home
But still a picture with grace and flow in shades of gold and green
Yes truly this is
Serenity

The soul is but a funny thing
Can it really be forever
And the secrets of this quantum realm
Can it hold this world together

Love and fear exhaust the mind
Bringing us to our knees
Upon our anger we draw strength
For envy, hate and greed

Disturbing are the dreams of this poet
Restless is my flight,
I shed the blood of a hundred demons
Who somehow stand and fight

To come to terms with yesteryear
Is a strength I lack within
Oh how I miss you my dear
And I wish I'd never sinned...

Yet another tribute to all of you who write. You are the true Rock Stars of the Universe.
~
Fiddling on the Roof, as if
Throwing our common soul out
To downpour over the
Houses and streets of Anatevka, now

Abandoned. Seized by
The Tsar.
History.
Such is the soul that writes.

Tells. Thinks. Whispers of.
Records and absorbs.
Carves from Creation.
Dispenses.

Such is the soul that writes; waits
Another hour in bed in the
Morning, knowing
The Early Worm

Gets the beak first.
The Soul that writes is
The quill of the gods; angel
Feathered, timeless and part of

Everything. Say to yourselves
I will write until the only ink
I have is the black in my eye.
I'll learn to write blind from there.*

You would.

You wrote all that has
Ever been
Written.