Why the rush?

Remember one day skins were shed  

You met me naked on a bed of passing time?

But things are what they are, 

time seemed to meander endlessly when we were young 

and now it runs as if it were a young maiden

chased by an oldie

One day it will stop and lie down beside the flames that will consume us

I only wish I get more of her in those little nooks and books that mattered once

But as you and I know, once lost, 

she bounces all the way to the great blue nothingness. Perhaps her lover lives beyond those stars. 

Maybe that’s why she is in a rush? 

Love

Love is a word, an image, 

sweetness and solitude, 

sticky sweet cotton candy 

that never quite begins until it ends 

Lingers on the tongue 

writes slow shivers across

memories whose nerves 

have never quite unwound. 

But maybe it is that broken glass, 

stuck in my feet 

while mopping your floor 

A light hearted remark

implying that faith forever 

gone, was once full. 

 

Other days, I drink to life

But on days like this, 

I drink to love and say

Love is a fidgeting child

who on leisurely afternoons, 

elopes with you beyond the hills 

Other days he sulks in a corner 

And I sit with him 

I caress his stories

And say love is time 

Lost, found and simply known

Fairy tales

Allow me to write it all up, 

farmyard tales of 

not-for-any-reason-blues

Once princes were made 

of men in horses who 

wrung a parrots’ neck to meet

 their women

Shiny, glitzy tales, sturdy folksy tales 

Swords and wits and battles to be won, 

stars to be strung on a nights lustful yarn

The books wind themselves up 

after being read, make themselves 

a cup of tea and wait

For another human to reach another world, 

a different coloured country, 

a darker hued woman.

Allow me to turn this page again 

and see if the yellowed letters 

stole some stardust 

from a long ago night 

on that very bridge

Seagulls

All of us seagulls lined up 

next to each other, our togetherness 

measured in meters 

A few million years ago 

when moonlit nights were unwitnessed

All men and all women 

unborn were seeking 

that one song, that one line, that one glance 

Too far away from ones soul,

 too close to where one belongs

And then these eyes were made

So they search for another or

for that perfect answer to empty spaces 

and baby universes 

creeping out of wormholes all around

 like seagulls 

No one came with a coffee cup 

and a book to curl up with to say, 

If you want my life, come and take it 

And no one saw those seagulls scatter

A whole new life

Life is turned upside down by love only because the ending feels like a whole new life. 

Sometimes upside down and at others, in that haloed light of oh-I-can-do-what-I-couldn’t- when-we-were-together, sepia tinted and hollowed of the right to feel the heart go cold once more, just once more with the fear of being alive, without being together.

And in the future where sunshine doesn’t fit into our closed palms lying on each other, lies no darkness more than what is required to find some torches, candles, motorway lights, whatever it is that keeps starlight from hinting at lonesomeness. 

But the past was death, lived all over again and again. Repetitive words, phrases, not even an iota of truth left in feelings hurled as accusations at each other’s already torn souls. 

Oh what would it take to heal the nostalgia of a love that existed only in each of our lonely hearts?

Oh how I wish that those unborn daughters of shared love walked down the roads of Paris each day looking for romance in the old and the worn and the idea of a city, a time and of love. 

But could anyone be loved the way they wished to be?

Bodies tumble but souls remain untouched or even the other way around. 

Does something in between body and soul stop one from going into the other?

We broke down that wall once, maybe more than once when your eyes held mine at the end of the universe 

Or maybe that was the beginning after all.

It was a pleasant spring day in Florida and the flowers were blooming. On a big street lived a teacher called Mrs. Lily. Mrs Lily was a kind teacher and she worked at a school close to her house. Her house was very nice and had two floors and she had a pet dog 🐶 called Snowy. She was pretty rich but she was kind hearted and wasn’t arrogant at all. She also had a job as an explorer over summer vacation, last year she had found an ancient gem that belonged to a native tribe for years. This year she was looking forward to summer vacation because the students were given a project and they would not stop talking about it 

Sorted Desire

How do we sort desire? 

This one is proper, the other, shallow.

This goes into the blue box of pursuit, 

that one into the red one of next week, 

these go into the pale pink box of never go there

There must be rooms full of unfulfilled desires 

of various women somewhere  

on our planet 

breathing in nicotine fumes of 

Memories soaked in regret

and boatfuls of children’s winged desires

Of spaceman spiffs atop Attenborough’s 

Predator cats deep inside a sphinx’s hollow

Men must have their trains and buses full too

Things that they once desired, withered 

In the vacuousness of repition and

Cookie cut travel maps, hotels, Malls, 

Even the ocean Carps and northern lights

Not as enticing as those travel photographs 

And what happened to tiny desires fulfilled?

A kiss from behind, feet lifted off the ground 

In faint, dizzy aftermath of slow lovemaking

Do they then fall off the face of earth and float 

Around like stars, expanding into nothingness 

Or do they float on unseen waves captured 

Aeons later by men in search of desire?

To die again

To love and fail and to love again, is that not the triumph of the spirit?

And yet we speak of children, wars and books 

as though the world is made up 

Of naked waters off unsanded shores 

Together four arms bring into this earth

A space that has been carved in heaven

And yet we speak of jobs, green papers, losses and gains.

When he was born, he must have foreseen

That if he grows up, he would die

And so cupid remained this dear dwarf on hoary walls 

While love failed again and again, 

To come out into real life from frescos, stardust, memories and lust.

And yet, somehow,

It is of wars we speak 

when we speak of courage

not of the insatiable desire 

to die. Yet again