When did grey skies become more welcoming?
When did cold breeze wrap the city in warmth?
When did gloomy nights turn into endless laughter?
When we came together again without a reason or excuse,
Every rainy day was more beautiful than blue skies
As we all sat inside telling stories and remembering old times.
And I watched from the staircase
As I was too young to understand,
And to me it was nothing, that we were all together again.
But now that I sit here older, with life lessons under my hat
I yearn for those days when the rain had kept us in.
For a drought has taken over our history and every excuse is like the scorching sun
And now I sit on the staircase thinking of those times once again,
When it was nothing to me that we were laughing
And now it was worth more than any prize.

I think of the pure indulgence,
The joy of mirth,
The feeling of freedom.

I think of how I saw it in her eyes,
In her expression.

All of these things came together and formed what we call a smile.

I think of the dimples in her cheeks,
The soft skin I loved to kiss.

I think of her full lips,
And the hair she had that was never stiff.

I think of how
When she enjoyed chocolate,
There would always be some left
On the corners of that beautiful smile.

I reminisce
Upon the beautiful times we spent together.

The feeling of her fingers intertwined in mine,
Her tired head being rested on my shoulder,
And a smile—
A rare smile.

This smile was like no other.
It was not the one she gave to people when they complimented her,
Or the smile she gave when she received a gift.

This smile
Was the smile she wore
When she was with me.

A special smile,
One only for me.

Oh, how I miss her lips,
And her quick, determined smile—
It was slightly crooked, but that made it all the more beautiful.

Oh, how I miss her confidence,
The perfect posture and easiness.

Oh, how I miss her hair,
Because even when thrown up without a care,
It landed perfectly—
Every hair.


And oh—
Oh how I miss her other side.

The one she hides,
But not with lies.

This is the side
She shows to me
When we are both
Very lonely.

She tried and tried with all her might,
But she could not do so on that lonely night.

That night,


She decided to give up the fight.


Oh, how I miss her,



Naked and vulnerable



On that December night.

The snow falls
On my naked body,
White covering
My open wounds.

The light leaving my eyes,
This is a blessed demise.
My blood running cold,
I no longer feel old.

My skin,
Pale with cold.
My hands,
Numb and old.

My wrinkles
Fade to nothing
As I begin my descent
Into mourning.

I suddenly feel saddened
That it must end so soon—

But then I remember
I am not the youthful girl I used to be
That December.

My moment of recall begins to fall,
Like a fragile ember.
I do not feel like I did
That December.

I was able to accomplish so much
Yet—
So little
In my wide-span life.

So much—
Because I met my first love,
Had my first kiss,
And was someone to miss.

But so little—
Because everyone can do those things.

No, so much—
Because all those little things
Make great things for me.

I realize that life is a fragile hourglass.
Some clumps in the sand might slow it down,
But the result is still the same.
I solemnly find out
That this is the end of my game.

And after all this time—
After all these years—

I remember.

The best thing,
The most beautiful thing,


Was that one day.
That one day,
When I fell in love with you.

The moment in my life most worthy to remember—


Was that day,



That December.

remind me of the good old days
when the grass was blue and tickled our
sallow faces, mashed into the ground with the
ferocity of dogs straining
against their masters’ wishes.

when i touched you and my hands came apart clean
as if they had run upstream along
your shoulder blades, peeling sweetly
as the sun renewed our forms
fresh, whole.

where the stars beamed down so bright
even the winterfairies came out
to dance with the night,
lovers tucked away in her
curve, reveling in orgiastic sincerity.

our organic bodies, lined with
organic dust, recollect in the shade
of rose-colored wisteria, blooming free
high and sweet, breathing in
breathing out.

somewhere in the twilight of your life,
you will begin to look back.

you will look to the sea of stars
and find that slowly,

one by one,

those white dots are winking out,
and the night sky is now an unfamiliar place.

they say that the past holds a different country,
but the future holds a different you.

a you that is tired,
clothes tattered from the running,
a brow used to sweat and a collar used to tears.

a you that is happier,
content in the hours of the morning
when the world speaks to you in its silent rumble.

a you that is jaded,
shoulders sagging with the weight of a life time of memories
heavier than any burden or chain.

a you that is wiser,
words wrought from the experience of burned fingers,
coffee-stained dreams, and unlit cigarettes.

a you that is older,
with a tapestry of stitches and scars
scribbled haphazardly on the skin of their back.

life is meant for mistakes.
after all,
the best stories are written with your feet,
in the pages between passports,
along trailing tattoos
and on the back of a paper napkin.

maybe in the future,
there will be a you
that doesn't remember home,
in the rush of the present.

home might look different now,
faded in sepia and steeped in the color of the past,
but always remember
it's been waiting for you since you left.

don't forget to visit.

Hey how are you?
How have you been?
Have you forgotten your old deep promise?

There were things you set out to do.
And on the way you would give out thoughts.
The journey would be hard but you
would always
find
yourself.

Always.
Unfailingly,
you would refine yourself.
Live the life of a dream.
Yes, the life of a dream not
a life in a dream.

The difference in this is essence.
So keep that promise to yourself.
No matter how distant you get from the genesis,
the origin is still with you.

You weren't the poetic one, but I just read Kaddish
and thought of you;
           of 1998 beach photo, Sussex somewhere - as I
remember you, perhaps a bit younger;
           of sweet peroxide blonde, hiding brunette. I was
naive to the dye 'til I saw 'the Hepburn shot' - that 1950
something print, you in Rembrandt light,
           or the black beehive wig in family portrait—
1970ish— dicky bows and cocktail dresses - Dad, aged
seven, in a shirt and trousers;
           of youthful snapshots: Portobello Beach, Edinburgh
(4), with parents in Kent (8), your gang of girls some snowy
place (14), painting the house with Raymond in Croydon (20);
           of latter digital images, 2012, more gaunt and wrinkled,
but ever-beautiful - seemingly ageless, as you wished;

           of care and trust and overdone vegetables, thin gravy,
brussel sprout production lines - beautiful, mundane memories
at Cowfold breakfast bar or Langley Green kitchen tops;
           of seaside trips to Shoreham, Portsmouth, Brighton, dogs
homes and holding my hand past the loud ones;
           of picking roses from the garden for 'perfume' - sticky
hands, wet floors and beautiful smells;
           of early morning rude awakenings, met only with cheer
and offers of tea and toast - I still have your butter tray
(hospitable even in death);
           of my brother's wedding, taking time to jive and seem
alive whilst everyone else was dying inside, despite the fact
that it was you, and you only, who should care the most (and
thus, if you didn't, why should we have);
           and of that very temperament, infamous tempers never
shown—at least to us—just pure, kind acceptance and
forgiveness.

           You weren't the poetic one.
           You were; the ninth child of a ****** and his wife
                              the girl with the Scottish accent
                              the wife of an engineer from Mitcham
                              the mother of three, the loser of one
                              the stern face of discipline
                              the BT telephone operator, the masseuse
                              the grandmother of three boys
                              the ageless face of beauty
                              the one I remember best

           You told me you couldn't recall your siblings' names -
I've looked into it. Ada, Jack, Edie, Emmie, Mabel, Joyce,
Raymond, Terence.