My friend, I miss you.
I miss the tingle of anticipation
that you’ll be coming through my door.
I miss the sway as we squeezy hug,
that charges and restores.
I miss the pretty notes of your perfume
the grey that sweeps your hair.
I miss saying that I like your top
and the brimming smiles we share.
Or saying, ‘Oh, you naughty thing!’
as I take the cake and wine,
you always do, though you always don’t
really need to bring.

I miss your natter, the laughs and snorts,
the ranging chats and views.
I miss hearing of your children
and all our other buddy news.
And when you’ve gone, the afterglow;
the altered atmosphere.
You left me more than cake, you know,
the joy that you were here.

Fishing for my muse
but he eludes me.
A futile quest to catch
mere sprats.
Other times they gush in torrents.
He teases me, I’ll warrant;
lets them drop into my lap,
words, fast & fat.
He commands the waters
but I will catch him for my tea
& feed my famished poetry.

Psyche WLTM her Cupid.
Enjoys candlelit dinners.

Chimera looking for love.
Me: light smoker.
You: must love animals.

Orpheus seeks Eurydice;
I won’t look back.

Oedipus ISO older woman, similar interests, background preferable. Likes surprises. GSOH.

A whispered glory;
the moon sets in summer while we sleep.
No theatre, no painting the skies
with an explosion of polychromatic pomp.
I aspire to be more moon than sun;
that companions shine in my company,
a benign influence
and relish phases dipped in shadow.

downy wind’s
hot breath
against uptipped face
tracking the foaming engine in the canopy
pressure piles against my skull
a thrill from thrumbling overhead
and a divine filament spurs me
soaking to the haven of my porch

What stuff is this cotton wool behind my eyes?
A knit of foggy fibers holding fast my next thought.
Odd when my mind so flies;
at the age of fifty three I ought
to relish ripe wisdom & cognition,
yet here I am, forgetting where to turn
just to reach the kitchen.

In ancient woodland
this child roamed,
lost in nature,
briar & loam.
Mapping clearings,
badger setts,
the places where
the deer had slept.
Picking berries
hops & flowers,
lying under
stripling bowers.
Until evening's
amber gloam,
with twiggy hair
racing home.

If I was my own man
I’d be out not in
I’d be bad not good
I’d eat goose not food
I’d be loose not leashed
I’d be first not least
I’d be chaser not chased
I’d be stud not chaste
I’d be wolf not woof
I’d be riffraff not poofed
I’d be beast not boy
that is...
until dinnertime.

Okay Mummy?

I'm squirrel watching.
I'm watching you and
those buxom cheeks,
filled by twitchy nibbles.
Then frozen features as you pause
to look right at me,
trapped and double glazed,
impotent indoors.
And I wince a little,
my tummy tickles
as you return to your meal
with another bite
from your nimbly nutgrasping paws.

Some mornings
I look at my face
and feel a pang of loss.
Like a thing once
fresh and succulent,
forgotten then found
grayed and desiccated
and stuck to the back
of the fridge.

I exaggerate.

Yet I am too old to be salad.