like dehiscence,
stabbed and stabbing again;
to beat a dying heart,
throbbed and throbbing again.
seasons changed
revealed kindness feigned,
leave the coldest of cold
in the merry warmth of a fireplace.
Fly.
butterfly picks rest
on flowers that aren’t volatile.
you picked me
in a universe full of everyone else.
yesterday it rained.
and the present droplets on my face
is a natural phenomenon —
a mere condensation
of the past humidity between us.
Bello.
Couldn’t tell —
Was it a dream dash,
Or a dream dashed?
Was it running from nightmares,
Or a running nightmare?
Deprecate.
She wasn’t the first;
But certainly the lust.
His words of passion
Was best in crass.
They saw ’em sunrise and sun sad;
Unknowingly, from dawn to dust.
Home.
rain seeped
through the roof,
the floors creaked;
sofa damp.
I was living with you,
content as I could be.
then I fell sick,
from the mess.
I thought
of the place it could be.
safe and secure
we could make it.
shelves and easels;
flowers and weasels;
green, black and gold trimmings;
lights no longer flickering.
It hurt as I waited
for a response that didnt come.
now i’m leaving,
the place that felt like home.
Imperfect.
the perfect portrait
wouldn’t see
the initial sketchlines
of rawness and mess.
though mostly unnecessary and unseen,
they were inceptive strokes
to a masterpiece
otherwise unstarted.
Saint.
Ended a day,
Down came the rain.
Finally tally,
The earnings you gain.
Walking down alleys,
Proved the power you rein.
Back to Mississippi,
You took the last train.
Lasses on board,
You manage to acquaint.
Despite temptations,
Managed to stay saint.
Worked on friendships,
Before they fully wane.
Met with old friends,
And their look of disdain.
Believing past closeness,
You could regain.
Duped to give loans,
To those you can’t refrain.
Helped them through pain,
They forgot your name.
Those time and efforts
They were in vain.
Through hard times,
You tried to stay sane.
Called those old ‘friends’
They didn’t pick up again.
Unrestrained.
the love I want
Is one of Goddard,
unrestrained —
raw,
poetic,
passionate.
modern love –
captive by rules
society held reins.
yet deeply we know,
we crave the
young, wild and free.
Forsaken.
it should no longer matter —
the past regrettable
or the future forlorn.
for the forsaken,
inquisition or unhearing —
it should no longer matter.
Gardener.
you didn’t give me butterflies,
instead you gave much more.
you gave me seeds and
scattered them where you saw dirt.
you nurtured them with me
and now it’s blooming.
amongst the bees and butterflies,
scents of sweets and the songs of birds –
a bed of romance,
a family tree oncoming,
bearing a harvest of fruits
from our labour of love.
killgwen 