Untitled #9

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Explorer

I would like to be intrepid,
An explorer exploring you,
A traveller travelling nowhere
Whilst you take me to places new.
There I would adventure,
A discoverer discovering me
A lover loving everything
That you can make me be.

 

 

 

Good (bye) Friday

“Parting is such sweet sorrow. Let me say goodnight till it be morrow”

Let the morrow come soon
Let days without you fly
Let me wish you happy times
Let me blow you a kiss goodbye.

Let the morrow come soon,
Let Friday turn to Wednesday
Let those days dissolve to hours
Let you be seconds away.

Let the morrow come soon,
Let me feel your warm embrace,
Let me know that you have missed me,
Let me kiss your beautiful face.

 

Silent Languages

We slide our tongues with fluency
Over the languages
We make our own,
Wrapping mouths articulately
Around words that only we understand,
Written in rhythms only we can move in.
We speak sensuously, silently, slowly, in images,
Understanding intuitively the need for
Deeper meanings,
Harder, more powerful metaphors
To communicate with.
We lip read each other eagerly,
Greedily mute with a desire
That renders us capably incapable
Of any vocabulary but touch.
We voice each other
Us
We
Lingering over,
Then swallowing,
The separate,
You.
Me.

Memories

On bright days they are the pebbles glittering on beaches,
Polished and pearly in the sun,
The ones you collect in your pockets or give,
Precious as gems, to the person you love.
Further back are the larger boulders,
The broken remnants of crumbling cliffs
Constant and confident in their gravity.
Scrambling across them you
Navigate their rough surfaces
Sure footedly as you look down
Upon cloudless reflections in rock pools
Until finally, you are high enough to take in the
Shifting view of the coastline
As it heaves and sighs and heaves and sighs
Below you. On the tide line
A scar of stones, tangled weed and sandy debris
Tells of last night’s howling storm
At least, for a while, until
The sea returns again
To wash everything smooth and forgotten.

Lonely Drinker

The gentle man with musician’s hands
Sits alone and stares at his lonely pint
Half empty, half full.
He sinks the beer, bitter,
And watches as oblivious drinkers drift through the door
All idle chatter and careless faces,
Light not lost,
Whilst he dreams and longs for her,
Maybe,
And looks for answers at the bottom of his glass
That are not there,
Like her,
He’s empty.

 

 

 

The Lovers

There is magic in this wood
It rises up like the earthy scent
That clings to hands and legs and faces.
Look closely and you can see it glitter
In the piles of icy snow that have accumulated
In the sheltered hollows of lovers’ eyes.

Entwined like fragile branches that break with a snap,
They find each other at dusk; caught for
A moment in that in-between world of wishes and
Whispering leaves that chant spells
To keep them bound to this place and each other;
Earthly magic, tender as touch.