The moment I got a chance I went to a bar…

And found a man who was a replica of you,

Your doppelganger actually:

Your face, your hair, your physique,

And I had him make love to me,

The exact same way you had described it,

In your letters,

Even including me reaching back,

To you – I mean him – for a kiss.

It was supposed to,

Turn back the clock,

To you – it didn’t,

It was supposed to be,

The pinnacle of my life;

The most telling,

Moment in my history.

It wasn’t.

agirlclock

Poets Are A Weird Mob:

I get up before the sun,

And before the household,

So I can write poems for you,

It comes out of my fingers.

In reams.

One day when I finally meet you,

I will give them to you and,

Unless you are a poet,

You may not understand,

The significance.

You’ll hand them back,

And with a half smile,

Politely say, “That’s nice,”

And I’ll know: they were,

Too long, too childish,

Too unnecessarily tender,

Not profound & brilliant enough.

And I’ll think “nice,”

They were nice!

Is that even a word?

Do we even have it in our language?

Can you break that down for me?

Can you think of other words instead of that?

Can you elaborate at all?

And I’ll be tempted to say,

“Maybe you should take an English class,

To increase your vocabulary,”

But of course I can’t say those things because,

Then I’m being picky, arrogant,

Vitriolic & spoiling for a fight,

And I don’t want to be,

Accused of those things again,

And then you’ll try,

To have sex with me,

But the thing is,

It’s not about nice and

Certainly not about sex.

So then I’ll be alone,

Once more dreaming about,

My next one-true-love,

…Where for art thou?

asunrise

“Did you miss me?” she asked …

“I guess so,” I answered, without making eye contact, as nonchalantly as I could.

“I did it to punish you,” she said casually.

“I know,” I answered, flicking through the mail.

“But every time I saw salt I would think of you and start to cry,”

“Oh really?” She knows how much I love salt.

“Were you crying into your cup of tea and pouring through old photos of me?”

“No,” I answered honestly, “I just kind of got on with my life.”

By now she was blinking back tears. Poor, dear thing: she’d never engaged in open warfare before and had no idea who she was dealing with – me; war torn, battle weary, permanently on my guard, defensive, jaded after all of the single and hand-to-hand combat missions I’d endured over my life – I was not about to start making tactical errors now.

“Would you have crumbled and died if I hadn’t come back?”

“Um, well, it would hurt for a while and then I guess I’d get over it,” I heard myself lying.

Her eyes met mine and we held that gaze.

“Come here,” I said with my arms outstretched and she melted into my embrace.

“I love you,”

“I love you too. It’s history now, leave it where it belongs,” and the dam inside of me receded a couple of inches, just enough to let me start breathing again.

Then we went straight back to chatting about the books we’d been reading as if nothing had ever happened.

atoughgirl

Divine Retribution:

She doesn’t know where he is,

What he’s doing or who he’s with,

She only knows the ache for him,

She only knows that now he’s

Just another statistic:

His life turned to ashes,

The moment he hurt her,

(She had the garage door down,

And the engine was running),

He’s the fifth one now who has

Met with cruel & diseased suffering,

A young & tragic death,

But as they say,

Karma is a butt kicker.

She switches the screen off,

She fixes her eye mask in place,

She smooths down the sheet,

And allows the crashing waves,

On the nearby shore to soothe her,

Into another dark & empty sleep.

girl and wolves

At The Round Table:

She’s not sure she thinks of herself as attractive anymore:

The daily battles had whittled her down so that there was nothing left,

Just a soul-less sack of saggy flesh and brittle bones that would make good compost,

Besides, the only thing she knew for sure about love was that it was transient,

And yet in the five years since she had vowed to never get close to another man,

She’d had three wonderful relationships – each one better than the last,

And leading her closer to the holy grail (but delusions are tricky things),

God give her strength!

girl alone

 

 

 

Where Love Goes To Die:

I didn’t know that the disease in your mind,

Would become gradually worse as we aged.

 

We were supposed to grow old together,

You were my best friend!

 

But I didn’t recognise you anymore,

I didn’t feel safe – I chose life.

 

In my heart I will always be married to you,

And only you, until the day I die.

 

35 was my lucky number:

Maybe it was time to go back,

She knew he would be there waiting for her,

But then she remembered his emotional betrayal,

She hadn’t rekindled their connection for that!

She was trying to improve her life,

Not to take a step back.

 

There are silent battles and steep hills,

But she’s spread-eagled on the ground,

With shield & weapon flung aside,

And her breath just won’t return,

Love had become her enemy,

And the summit seemed ever so far.

girl and man one by one

 

 

 

She Sleeps With The Light On…

. . . Just in case,

The night is still,

There’s not a sound,

Except the rumbling of a distant truck,

Which propels her into a memory;

It was of the time when she had her babies,

A marriage bed full of passion, youth & hope,

It was a time long before these lean times.

 

She sleeps with the light on because . . .

The phone might ring;

The Angel of Death in Her chariot,

Has swept down again, mercilessly and,

In her cruel and twisted way has,

Extracted another of her loved ones.

 

She sleeps with the light on,

So that the memory of her lost loves,

Doesn’t overwhelm her,

Because they can’t – you know – if you have the light on,

The memory of the contour’s of their bodies,

Their gentle or wild thrusts,

Their whispered indulgences,

All held at bay.

 

She sleeps with the light on,

To stop the snoring in the empty room,

The footsteps on the hallway boards,

The growling from the ceiling,

The ghosts remain invisible and can’t see you,

Or hurt you with the light on.

 

She sleeps with the light on,

So that if she wakes with a night terror,

She will instantly see her lovely things around her,

And, after some time,

Gain some comfort and soothe herself back to sleep.

 

She sleeps with the light on,

Because she doesn’t know what awaits her in the black dimension;

Dreams of babies long gone,

Lovers lost, souls removed from her life by death,

Quick as a flash and still half in slumber,

She can grab her pencil & paper,

And jot down the rhymes – such as this one – as they come to her at 3am.

umbr

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Ponds & Balmy Nights:

He approves of almost everything about her,

And enjoys being her hero,

So when she says she needs time,

To concentrate on her relationship with her,

He holds her so tightly that it almost hurts,

She knows he’ll always be there if she changes her mind,

“Don’t sit by the pond without me, particularly on those balmy nights!”

He will anyway,

She knows it.

 

Mr Wordsmith:

She liked to “rescue” the hopeless cases,

Or that was what she was told anyway,

But also, he had to have a way with words,

To read her soul, to woo her back as she was walking away,

Reminisce over the good times,

Talk to her about nothing, in particular, to relax her,

Gratefully receive her mementos of love (poetry mainly),

If all of these boxes were checked, then yes, she’d take it!

He would become the latest soon-to-be ex,

Completely worthy of her love.

man and brain