Rotting corpse
Chained around the neck

Has fallen
Finally from
Nostril zone.

Bad deeds
Undone

All is left

And come
To right

The sweetest

Smell

Of freedom

A little man sat by my bed
As I lay there full of dread
I said "Do you ever sleep?"
The sight of him just made me weep

He lifted up his little cap
Then asked me what I thought of that
I said "Why don't you go away
And not come back another day"

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2017.

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

Love is a fire,
finally caught,
an like a kite taking wind,
it's not something that's bought,

It's that most breathless feeling,
the kind that is sought,

An from the heart of the poet
that love
freely taught.

Ma Cherie © 2017