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

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

The Ada Tree:

I took my love to the Ada Tree, the Ada Tree,
Where we could be alone, him and me,
I would tell of my dreams and two would become three.

This was my chance – his dazzling smile had stolen my heart,
At the Ada Tree; one last shot at romance,
So much had passed between us that meant so much to me.

But … at the Ada Tree,
And with much sorrow, I began to see.
“My heart belongs to her forever,” said he,
As he pulled his hand from mine: at the Ada Tree,
(where two was supposed to become three),
 Our paths unentwined.

Push him off this summit;
P’haps my anger would subside, at the Ada Tree,
– He’s no-ones if not mine.
Curse him to Kingdom come with all my witch’s might,
At the Ada Tree,
Where he left me and day turned to night.

The view from here takes your breath away,
I remember it still:
Sweet Ada Tree,
Where being became numb,
Eyes blind and I grieved a broken will.  

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