i am lying on my stomach
starring at the blue elephant prints on this duvet
i got from Sri Lanka last year. and there's
a small voice in my head
that says to me, do not fall in love again.

but i do it it anyway.


-- Eleanor

Many sing of Shakespeare or of Keats.
I look to a Scottish lad for my treats.
He was of Irish descent,
and but for friends he would have lived in a tent.

From weaver he rose to a poet of renown,
but his contemporaries treated him as a clown.
Employed to give recitations of his masterpieces,
such as the famous 'Tay Bridge Disaster' he was a poet
of an entirely different species.

Spurning fashionable poetic metaphor and scans,
his simple language amused his many fans.
Alas he died in poverty. Yes he was skint,
but unlike many others of his time,
his poetry's still in print.

what a lovely thing it is
to know
you gave your heart
but not
your soul

yet you still lost it all
because you forgot
that when you signed
your heart away
your soul was
the fine
print.

this is what you get
when you try
to share
your life
with another.

I stop reading.

I look at these clumsily scribbled words.

I look at these fine print.

And I reach out my hand

to the page

and touch these words

to know

whether they really exist.

I reach out

to grab onto that hand,

so I can come out of water

for a moment,

to take breath

and remember what it was like

to not drown.

For that moment

I keep reading.

Fogged-up glass
Rain drops
Blood drops
Spattering,
****** handprint
Streaking down like the rain

Imaging flashing into my head
I need to turn this into a proper poem

Beauty is within the heart of a poet freely poured out in print forever

I am getting inked
This is my first
It will be with me as I go through years

The needles punch into my skin, adding detail
Careful, for it mustn't smear
This is not just ink
It is my love for you
This is not just a word
A meaning for me

I go back to the moment we first met
The trance I was in, I am in it again
Your eyes
Your touch
Your everything
Let them tattoo into me forever

I will think about you until my heart beats
I will talk about you until my voice lasts
I will write about you until my bones crack

You are my everything

Bhakth (my son)

That is my tattoo

Mind numb, but really only asleep.
Blank, unperturbed, but that is impossible.
A white and blank sheet of paper is the impending rapture of peace.
We are commanded to improve the page.
Can one write on white with white?
Nay, a darker shaded mark one must leave.
For to write  a story one must have
both the black and the white;
Put in print
no need to sprint
to find what is said.

The Great writer made the world white,
and introduced a plight that allowed him to write.
And the print said to itself,
“The writer is out of sight; leaving us dark, cast and in the past.”
Til long at last all the paper shall be made anew.
In that day the page of black and white will fade to gray,
all the same will be arrayed,to start again.
Don’t ask when, just know;
That all will go from simple
to complex
to simple again.