I miss wet rain on buses
I miss crowded subway stairs
I miss noisy streets in public
I miss breathing ocean air:

I miss walking in the snow
I miss snowmen building high
I miss concretes slushy flow
I miss children stepping by:

I miss eyes of pretty girls
I miss old men sitting too
I miss seeing squirrels creep
I miss streetlights switching hue:

I miss walking to and there
I miss waiting crosswalks tick
I miss coming home all wear'd
I miss sleeping after six:

I miss waking up at nine
I miss dreading morning days
I miss my recurring life
I miss living life again.

I am endless poetry that does not ever rhyme
Unwashed dishes concealed above as I ran out of time
Broken plastic flowerpots that house neglected plants
unpaid rent, unpaid loans, unpaid student grants

I am books I’ll one day sit and take the time to read
About caged birds escaped from homes who died once they were freed

I am fox bones weaved with gold thread, amethyst and feather
The rain and fog and cold and storm that dominates the weather

I am all the boxes that you’ll never have to open
It’s just as well because you’ll cut yourself on bottles broken

The white tipped waves bring treasures found washed up on jagged shorelines
I’m the sea glass tumbled, lost but glinting when the sun shines

Come rhyme with me
In a bit of
Harmony
But suppose
We juxtapose:

Lemon drop
Bitter
Tear drop
Bawl
Sundrop
Flitter
Raindrop
Fall
Duck
Duck
Goose
A­ little heaven on earth
Before all hell breaks
Loose
~

Again I feel a yearning.
This fire in my gut.
Again I feel a yearning,
to free myself from this bog.

It burns, like a wildfire.
Sending upwards plumes of smoke.
It shines, like raining starfire.
Pouring from the sky amongst the oaks.

My feet are heavy.
Anchored by fear and regret.
Heresy against the dogma.
That I should love myself above all else.

My dreams are magnetic.
Seeking to rejoin eachtime they shatter.
They know nothing of defeat or sorrow.
Living to them, is all that matters.

Marching to an invisible rhythm.
Listening to a tune, all of their own.
My ambition and drive move forward.
Into the pitiless night beyond.

Maybe they seek redemption.
Or to end it all devoured by the beast that prowls the dark.
Maybe, they have no other choice;
but to march, and march, and march...

Was I to turn to my side
Walking under moonlight
Would I see you there?
Matching my step?

No.
For you are gone,
You left without a word
after saying too much.

Was I to turn to my back
Walking by the streetlights
Would you be following me?
As in days gone by you did?

No.
For you have banished.
A body displaced, that casts
echoes in the depths of my brain.

And what would I see?
Heading into a tomorrow
punctured in waning sunlight
When I turn my step?
When I look ahead?

Nothing.
But shadows dancing
In your image, with your name
And cold stones as poles
of a merry-go-round.

Joyous angels an entire night spent,
singing with flutes they ceased to relent.
Shepherds lowly pitch their dusty tent.
A story indeed reminiscent
of ageless advents when we all went
to sing in churches in wintry Kent.
In fright we gazed at Santa's beard length,
in a speed sleigh drawn by the Elks' strength.
We sought more fun for an extra cent.
But after pleasure we did repent,
speaking solemn words of a good gent:
'Oh, what a pleasant time in advent,
to usher in the infant God sent.'