Gerald sat by the window,
He didn’t know why,
Perhaps it was because he liked,
To watch the passers by.

Gerald wasn’t very mobile,
In fact he was grossly fat,
And when he did get to up to shuffle,
His buttocks they did flap,

From under his greasy nightshirt,
The nightmarish apparitions appeared,
And Gerald, being Gerald,
Did what the passers by all feared.

He’d stand upon the chair,
And lift the nightshirt high,
And press upon the window pane,
His voluminous backside,

And a smile would play,
On his sugar donought crusted lips,
As the people who had seen this,
Would gasp and run in fits,

And Gerald laughed and giggled,
Because Gerald didn’t care,
It seemed to him he’d just prefer,
If none of them were there.

But he hadn’t always been lonely,
And when younger far from fat,
Handsome had he been once,
And considered quite a catch,

And caught he was by a pretty young girl,
Who soon became his wife,
And they loved and fought,
And loved and thought, that this would last for life.

And so it did,
But for her and not for him.
So Gerald sat by the window,
Which is where I did begin.

If by chance you should walk the field’s edge
Beyond the thorns and the balding privet hedge,
Walk for five minutes until you see,
A lonely birch copse and a sycamore tree,
And as the breeze inspires the clouds above,
To fluff and feather in the sky they love,
Then look to the copse and think of me,
Those clustered trunks in adversity,
For together they can break the howling winds
From plundering what lies within,
And then, my friend, you’ll understand,
The strength that comes from holding hands.

The feelings that I have
And the feelings that are me
Do wax and wane from time to time
With the rising falling sea
Often swamped within its swell
At the mercy of tidal clocks
One day to dance across a beach
Another dashed on rocks.

Rarely going straight to the point
But approached best from the side
Testing gently, tacitly
Before the pincers are applied
And they can be formidable
With a tenacious grip
So be careful what you wish for
If into the rock pool you do slip.

Evolved with solid outer shell
An armoured place to hide
Because beauty may be skin deep
But emotions lie inside
And the softness of the centre
Can be a dangerous place to go
For it can upset the natural balance
Of what we think we know.

And though we truly feel the pain
Our hearts fight to be true
So we cling on through the stormy days
Just because that’s what ***** do.

Lifetimes ago
Behind a sofa, on hard floor, we slept entwined,
Warmed by lust – and those eyes.

Waking early
Another appetite took her
She wanted bananas
Not coffee, nor toast, or foie gras
But with whispered twinkle –
Bananas.

So I braved the detritus of folly
The beer can minefield, the tangled bodies of fallen angels
And stepped silent, into Finchley Sunday morning.
Welcoming the early sunshine of Maggie’s suburb
With the smugness of a man fresh loved.

The corner shop, door wedged in anticipation of heat to come, was dark
Looking up the old man fixed me with dark, dark eyes

Raising one eyebrow said he, “Bananas?”
“Yes”, smiled I

And I knew there was so much to know

Lifetimes ago.

Learning still.

Into his plastic lunchbox
He did, an Orange and biscuit, shove
And said the biscuit to the orange
“Come sit by me, my love”

And the orange, taken by surprise
Gave him a sheepish grin
And flashed her pips and dimples
So he knew they might begin

She was smooth and round and juicy
He was crunchy, brown and fat
She introduced herself as Lucy,
And he said his name was Zak

And throughout the sunny morning
They did laugh and love and tease
When suddenly with no warning
Their lives were torn apart with ease

The sky ripped from their little world
Their peccadilloes for all to view
First Zak, then Lucy disappeared
With a bite, a crunch, a chew.

So dear reader, please take heed
Don’t shy away from love
For we never really know quite when
It’s lunchtime up above.

She was my fresh air,
Out of a stifled room,
She was my refuge beyond compare,
When all seemed gloom.

And now, her vision still stabs, quite sharp,
But not with violins, or roses, or harp,
No, just a little sigh, when I recollect her swoon,
Under the roses, Back Hessle Terrace, One June.

So what of love,
Hearts burning fire,
Impaled on the horns of pain and desire,
A villain made true; honest man to a liar
In wretched quest for an abstract that’s higher

And if, perchance, they should vanquish their need,
Will he or she to true love concede
Or never quite sure of heart’s fine intention
Smother such dreams with stifling convention
Then, dastardly torn, twixt right and true
Sully their soul with transitory muse

In fear of the power that thunders within
And a promise once made, to never give in
For the Poet’s dilemma in this miraculous life
Is that when blessed with love, ‘tis oft coupled with strife.