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 more

“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. more

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 more

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 more

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 more

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. more

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 more

Sunshine on a cloudy day:

I knew you before I read your words, I sensed your spirit and spoke with you, Before ever I saw your name, And there you were shining like a ray of sunshine, “Don’t get too carried away, though” I told myself, “Life is still life, after all,” This dark night of the soul has me more