My heart's distressed,
Emotions vexed,
Images can't escape.
I'm perplexed,
My text is hexed,
I can't explain
What I feel.

My hands are dyslexic,
I'm swirled in the vortex
Of unwritten lines to read.
The words are trapped,
My message is clapped
In perceptions
That can't be freed.

I try to release them,
Catch and cage them,
And arrange with diversity;
Then in a while,
And using guile,
I'll fashion
Some fine poetry.
(Such is the state
Of me).

I've heard the quip,
I've been advised:
Just write how you feel.
For me,
That's blathering,
Bothersome nattering,
Void of poetic appeal.

I need a someone,
Like an Anne Sullivan,
To teach me how
To feel;
Not with sentience,
But rather with senses,
Alive,
And writhing in me.

she was a novel
with twists and turns
the kind shoved behind
library bookshelves
and under heartsick beds

she spun words
into velvet
and they seeped
right through her lips
and onto his lonely skin

and oh, how she loved him
with the passion of a sunset
and the bravery of a child
and her words craved him
even more than she did

he was the reason why
her eyes strained a torturous fog
and her words clogged her throat
and a dozen unsent letters
desperately cluttered her room
and her words weren't velvet,
they were just word
and just like her,
they were not worth loving anymore

An amalgamation of all that has been
and all that will ever be:

Waves of joy, gently washing over my body,
heartache, pulling me under, like an ocean current

A  harmony beckening for peace,
turbulent storms unleashing disaster

Laughter, an enduring friendship,
sadness, an unwelcomed thief in the night

Comfort, tenderly healing a wound,
pain, like the crack of a whip

The blessing of life entering the world,
a devouring ache, cast by the shadow of death

The sweet taste of desire,
and a wretched stench of apathy

Embraces, like the warmth of the sun,
aggression, a scorching burn

Courage, roaring within my soul,
fear,  shivers surging down my spine

Enchanting dreams, written in the stars,
a sky brimming of failure, waiting to downpour

Love, a heavenly paradise, thankful to be explored,
hate, fallen into the gutter, begging for forgiveness

Fragment upon fragment,
all that shines its light and all that creates darkness

You are LIFE
*MY PERPETUAL MUSE

my mind is weary that
it has painted every blushing cheek
that I have ever kissed
every pair of lips
I may have dreamt them up
but with each heavy thought
I sink deeper in my flesh
and I'm deep with you
we need a new head rush
a vacation for a daze or two
we'll lay sand at the bedside
and find that each morning's an ocean
and the tide will tell us
how the future doesn't exist
maybe my brain will grow fonder
of what my heart likes

Staring a hole in the
seat in front of me.
even the mornings are night
in winter,

so far from the summer nights
when the sun barely dips
below the
horizon.

finally a film of powder snow
with tire marks from
other busses whisper
Norwegian winter,

and a far deeper, crisper cold
will feel like breathing
crystal, only the hint of
firewood burning in

nearby houses lends homely
comfort to the smell of
nature against whom a layer of
clothes is the only armour

between a life lost and not.
cold fingers. nothing makes you
miss a woman like the scent of
her face; hair;

person
on
your
hands.

Every line on my face
is one drawn between
myself and my
conscience, then
crossed.

I was looking
at the books;
nothing
in particular wanted,
just browsing
the shelves, titles,
authors names,
colour and pattern
of the book covers.

Then some dame comes,
picks out a book,
opens it,
has a look,
mumbles
a few words
(poem I think),
then takes the book
to the counter,
pays and sways
her hips out of there.

I pick out
a Bukowski
poetry book,
have a look,
read a few poems,
have a laugh
(the humour
of that guy),
think I’ll buy.

I go to the counter,
and still
the perfume
of the dame lingers.

I hold
the Bukowski book
in my hand
brushing the cover
with my ageing fingers.