December 4, 2013

 

 

I can see the seat

where you were sitting,

when you opened up your heart-

You found the setting fitting

 

to reveal the secret you’d held

for most all, of your life.

Then, seemed to you the time,

to unload pride’s sacrifice.

 

In a way, I guess I knew,

or had sort of weighed it up.

Such knowledge can be drunk

from life’s rich loving cup.

 

At times I had felt your pain.

I also knew to what great length,

you’d held back tight, the past,

costing you all of your strength.

 

Often looking into your eyes,

over many years, I saw

that at times you’d just go blank,

and then quietly withdraw.

 

It was easier for you, I guess,

to sidetrack and remain aloof.

For you to acknowledge grief,

would need from you, living proof.

 

And by then, in your mind

you had ceased to exist.

With most emotion you struggled-

like a limp handshake of the wrist,

 

or a hug that was icy cold

and always released too soon,

protecting what feelings were left,

that escaped being buried that June.

 

In a muddled, befuddled way

you had learnt somehow to live-

with nothing much to take,

and even less to give.

 

With no future plans in place

and no sunny horizon ahead.

Decades came and went

with you scarcely, all but dead.

 

Just ticking along each day

with your quietly controlled act,

well worth an academy award-

no great actor could ably enact.

 

In this high security prison

you’d built within your head,

where parole not an option-

enforced railings, your bedstead.

 

You held fast your heartache,

unseen, with no hint of the hell,

that you had chosen to endure,

and that you covered up so well.

 

So now the end, but not the end,

for when a torment shared,

it is but an agony doubled,

and neither one unimpaired.

 

And now my one predicament:

‘Do I take it to my grave?’

Thus burying it forever

Oh, to this tale, I am a slave!

 

I’m left with your dilemma.

True, it now is second hand.

But I think the time has come,

to set it free with a reprimand.

 

 

 

December 3, 2013

 

 

Oh little Pipit

with fractured wing,

unable to fly, what

heartbreak you bring.

 

Sitting weakly chirping

inside your nest.

You cannot move,

though you try your best.

 

Now help is here-

your lucky day.

Your wing soon fixed,

you’ll be on your way.

 

To warmer climes,

over land and sea.

You’ll travel on,

and glide with glee.

 

Just when you thought

no help in sight,

your call was heard,

I saw your plight.

 

And now whole again,

as if brand new,

a new horizon,

can you pursue.

 

But little Pipit,

just this I ask.

‘When at your destination,

in sun you bask’,

 

‘That when the season

begins changing there,

you’ll think of me,

and take to the air.

 

It would be your choice,

you have the right,

but what joy you’d bring,

if you thought you might.

 

Return to where

a welcome awaits

with crumbs aplenty

supplied by mates.

 

Who helped you in

your time of need,

when you were unable

yourself to feed.

 

That you must go,

is nature’s way,

but I pray you do

return some day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A simple tug of the heartstrings,

the thread invisible to the eye.

A daring blink, unintentionally carnal,

that moves a man to sigh.

 

A second glance, always the thriller,

the one that ignites the fire,

and sets the wheels in motion,

and stirs up, new found desire.

 

And then ’game on’, the age old story,

of, could we, should we, oh why not?

At that moment all seems possible,

‘What’s to lose?’ for an instant, forgot!

 

And after, the final look that is the killer,

the one that says ‘ no longer for hire’.

The one that cools off hot emotion,

that went right down to the wire.

 

 

 

 

In all innocence

she suspected nothing,

even when under her nose

the evidence sat.

 

Things like that

never bothered her.

She didn’t listen to

wild chit-chat.

 

When the cold facts

were even shown to her,

she’d still shake

her head, in doubt.

 

She always saw the

nice side of everyone.

We could never quite

work her out!

 

 

 

 

 

You’re off your head

to go out with him.

He needs to see

a trick-cyclist soon.

 

I knew his Father,

he went to our school.

He was expelled

for playing the loon!

 

I went out with his Father,

if truth be known.

My Mother felt the way

I do now.

 

Funny how life

repeats itself,

and twenty years on,

we’re having the same row!

 

 

 

 

She never liked a thing I bought.

we had such a different taste,

in absolutely everything –

so much money, I did waste.

 

She’d plonk a smile upon her face,

I still can see it now.

I knew she hated my gift to her,

I’d think ‘What a rotten cow!’

 

 

 

 

He said he’d fixed it,

but I knew he hadn’t.

When he tells lies,

his nostrils – they flare.

 

Next time I used it,

I got soaked to the skin,

and I’m afraid, that blue,

was the air!

 

 

 

 

It’s dirty work

is this truffle foraging,

but dirty work can’t be beat.

There’s chefs from

the finest eateries,

queuing to cook them,

to serve to the elite.

 

 

December 1, 2013

 

 

It is localised.

It has been contained.

It is under padlock.

It has been constrained.

 

It is all but dead.

Now gone, what remained!

It is a harrowing memory,

that must be left, unexplained.

 

 

 

 

 

Please don’t knock for Fleur,

she doesn’t want to know.

She left here last week

with the town, deep in snow.

 

Please don’t ring for Fleur,

the bell she won’t hear.

She went off on a whim,

without any sense of fear.

 

Please don’t cry for Fleur,

to herself, she is true.

She’s fulfilling her dreams,

which exclude me or you.

 

Please don’t mourn for Fleur,

she’s very much alive,

and maybe in the future,

back into our lives, she will ride.

 

 

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