A deck of hearts
A deck of spades
Some cards to get me
through the day

Shuffle the stack
And mix them so
You lay them down
And you're good to go

Black goes with red
Red goes with black
No cards in hand?
take three from the stack

Now we go from King
then Queen to Jack
Red, black, red
Black, red, black

If you've played for some time
it's safe to say
you've come across a card
that had an A
don't be confused, it's called an ace
If you find all four,
it's your lucky day!

So here's a truth
I'm sure you can bare
Congratulations, my friend
You just played solitaire

I am a pen
Safe in a warm hand
I can write poetry short stories
Even novels
And I am always put away safely
Ready for the next time.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.

I think harmony is one of those things,
that can only be determined from an internal blueprint.
Concepts emerge,
and this reasoning is extracted,
from beautiful objects and ideas.
Simply,
an idea formed,
and              framed
by                        a
grouping           of
other                ideas.

More often than is naught I carry the face of the villain.
Snared in this prison waiting for my turn to burn while
your fate is not so different from mine. My clocks still
yield some ticks and tocks yet before I go there stands a
few things you need to know:

They told me that your love was fatal, though failed to
hear the laughter of irony from behind their heads. They
cried tales that you were toxic and I could not save my
lips from curling. They said that your presence in mine
would design the suffering for those around. I was told
that you would leave me up in smoke as if God still
plays with dice. Your middling cigarette spends just the
beginning of their lives packing yet I waged it my
whole life just to spend its remnants with you. Addictive
by nature so let me take my pick of a million other lips
to secure truth that it is you I am addicted to.

I want you to simmer my skin when the world is cold,
I want to cast you brighter than a hundred suns hold,
I want to steal breath from your chest and place it in mine,
I want to make your heart stop like an eight-sided sign,
I want you to move my pistons and ignite my core,
I want you to saturate me as I lay on your shore,
I want to find what it is to go out with a bang,
I want to be that picture that fits in no frame.

I want to get you out of my head but you are
my song on repeat,
my hole that’s too deep,
my nights with no sleep,
my words when I speak.

Yet alas I hail from a pack known as Montague while
you bear the brand of Capulet. They will never render
us free in this life so when my time finally comes to a
burning halt, and my life flashes before my eyes, just
know that you will be the only thing I see in the next.

Book


Filled with the dead trees
From our backyard.
It’s shell hard, yet soft, protective, gentle.
Covered in a picture, words,
And a name
That brands it as theirs.

The insides:
Scratched,
Torn because of anger
Fear
And disgust.
And all it can do,
Is bleed it’s dry
Black ink.

We take for granted,
These small,
Yet large pieces of art
The ones that tell us all about their life
And about the ones who created them.

They sit, quietly,
Solemnly,
Unfortunately,
Across the desk,
Lined up with their brothers
Unopened,
Unread.
Yet,
They have been read.

You offered me your body,
I offered in return:

A tuna fish sandwich,
A nice piece of carnelian,
Maybe a book or two about odd things
like death by electrocution or Leonardo da Vinci
or the history of the upright bass,
Endless records,
Enough jazz to paint the world blue,
My mouth forming the shapes of notes,
A breath from my own lungs,
The scarf which was lovingly knit for me
by my one remaining friend,
Lipstick, bright red and smooth,
Feathers from a hawk that I found by the road,
Dried pink roses from a corsage,
Two baby teeth in a container that once held film,
Hair shorn with a dull kitchen knife,
A collar of cracked burgundy leather,
Sachets smelling faintly of lavender,
A mirror which was cracked on my thirteenth birthday,
One lace glove.

Why did you leave?

Slamming doors are our earthquakes
they are the faults that quake
and when they shift
I can feel our world quiver.

The home we've built
is almost shambles
the plaster lining our walls
crumbles and becomes the dust on our shelves.

The fights we share
are the shifting foundation,
where cracks stagger our steps
and cause us to share blows
dancing a silhouette
of arguments.

Pieces of people
that we never used to be--
are the imaginary characters to our fairy tales  
because there is no way
we could see either of as beautiful--
when we are only seeing
an outline of who we used to be.

Caricatures so misshapened
that they are etched into our bedroom
the sleeping place we used to share our dreams
and instead we scream our nightmares

collapsing from exhaustion
only to cuddle with extra pillows
building forts on each side of the bed
to at least have something comfort us.  

Our harmony finally makes it's ******
it is not the smash of earthquakes
but the sickening silence of loneliness
because we've become isolated.

no longer stomping out natural-disastres
instead we accept our indifference
and we quietly leave the door open--
because there's no need to close doors
in a house we no longer live in.