i never really thought an almost stranger’s second floor apartment could make me feel at ease

it was a houseful that night but even after almost everyone with a long drive home left
it still felt ***** even though i barely knew anyone who stayed
if it were anywhere else
i would have stayed bottled up all night
and left when they did
even though i live ten minutes away
but something about that place
and the almost stranger who calls it home
made me feel more comfortable than i have since coming to this new place

not even my space feels like that

can you be my
favourite person
and can i be yours?

These days, the years come slow and go by so fast.
These days, it's hard to make memories and even harder to make them last.
These days, we're afraid of ourselves as much as we are of strangers.
These days, we see everything as a danger
These days, we're getting farther apart even though we're starving for connection.
But the isolation is a great opportunity for self reflection.
Unfortunately, we look at the clock and think we have to rush.
These days, we don't take enough time to appreciate the power of a kiss, hug, or touch.
These days, words have more power than ever. So please take the time to think about what you say.
It may change how people think of you for the rest of your days.

you wanted me



         to change my idea of love
just so you could continue to do the same thing

Evening darkens upon the moors,
Forgiveness—a hairless thing
skirting the headlamps, fugitive.

Why have we come,
traversing the long miles
and extremities of solitude,
worriedly crisscrossing the wrong maps
with directions
obtained from passing strangers?

Why do we sit,
frantically retracing
love’s long-forgotten signal points
with cramping, ink-stained fingers?

Why the preemptive frowns,
the litigious silences,
when only yesterday we watched
as, out of an autumn sky this vast,
over an orchard or an onion field,
wild Vs of distressed geese
sped across the moon’s face,
the sound of their panicked wings
like our alarmed hearts
pounding in unison?

My family did get lost in an English moor on a dark moonless night. It happened when I was a boy. My mother was driving and seemed to have no idea where we were, or which direction to head. I wondered if we would ever find civilization again. It was a very spooky experience that I drew on for my poem. Keywords/Tags: England, Devon, moor, car, headlamps, headlights, directions, maps, points, routes, strangers, signals, orchard, field, geese, hearts, relationships, parting, separation, divorce, loneliness, alienation, free verse

I am grateful for those strangers
who carry my grief in kindness,
those who shoulder it with no thought,
just a sharp awareness of the ache of death
whirling inside as I balance between
cancer and despair, the wondering of the
value of a cure in a world becoming corpse.

They pull me away from myself with
nurses’ caresses,  children smiles,
those few  holding the glass door
open until I pass the threshold
while they sing quietly to themselves,
all Atlases bearing milliseconds of ache
in the chain of Christ’s example.

I have called them and they have called me,
kindness birthing kindness, rearing kindness,
each reaching towards, backwards, forwards,
determined to keep me from myself
and the the temptation to step off the edge
that calls me and them, all knowing that Atlas  
never had  the solace of conquering death.

neither a friend
nor an enemy;
we are two strangers
with some same set of memories.