There is no one who can touch me
beyond my feelings, for that sleepless
red, gigantic moon.
Our love was not of art, metered
in verse, or painted in scenes that coloured
the watchful eye.
I will you, take flight –
not to return; taken by those suspect winds
that blow the chills through
No complaining – no intentions ever meant
no smiles, no voiceless regrets, now
long solitary reviving those times
on so many counted ifs!
You called me – your autumn
glazed in tones of fertile gold.
I replied, that autumn, always she comes to die
leaving those who once did touch her
brittle cold – buried deep as snow…
I always imagined her
longed neck –
high and low.
Caught on the horizons sidelines
searching for that safe place to go.
How well she finally
homed that landing
with her salt-laden, sunshine smile.
of her mouth angled at ease, a tributary
of waters now long ago laid so wasteful at rest.
That once, straight backed shape –
now eel-like, curved in composure
fragile in this, her new found
sanctuary of endings.
Of all her reasons, left unadorned
in the nothingness of such a lonely
25th January 2014
She is the vividness
around impure prisms
of engaging fire fly light.
Assumptions – predetermined
flicker past her tissues
The ghost of something, one
treads in shadows by your side.
She, always politeness
playing frivolous games.
Make believe – the touch
of something dark, rubs eyes
Origins of back room
absurd in their self-satisfied glow
of naked, adulteress smiling…
This winter I have something to do
Making tea for two – along with tending the flowers.
Who cares if it takes all day?
I have witnessed the malignant hands of idleness
extravagant in their torture –
between the mouthing of cold lonely air.
I like to sit perfectly still
hands wrapped around the steaming
vessel of warmth – swallowing slowly,
contentment of the moment seeping its way down.
Your tea goes cold just like it always does.
Taking the cups over to the sink, I do what
I normally do
tipping yours in a pan, to heat up for later.
Time to tend the flowers
those wretched moths got at the roses earlier this year.
So glad I chose artificial flowers – far more practical
in the long run.
Oh I know you would have much preferred fresh
but they die so quickly…!
So please forgive me when I say:
One death at a time, my love –
Is more than enough for anyone
Poppy September 2013 ~xx~