Poetry

Wanting

You want to be a post for me to lean on,

an ear to whisper all secrets.

You want to be my walking guide,

and take me off the boring paths.

You want to be the person I always laugh with,

the person who will take my hand in dance.

You want to be the one to hold me,

ward away all my fears.

You want to be a wall of protection

against all my daily worries.

You want to always be in my life,

smile at me every day.

You want to make a pact,

words that hold true forever.

 

I want to accept those words,

and to be all those things for you.

Poetry

Liquid Clay

You hand fits in mine so perfectly,

I wonder if they were cast from the same mould.

I can feel all of you

in even the slightest touch.

I know our thoughts of the future,

and I bathe in them every day, thinking

one day,

one day.

 

The leaves are browning; coppers, bronze, golds.

You are silver. A river of it,

a mirror

that I can swim in to the house we’ll have,

with a library,

a dojo,

a room of puzzles only we can solve.

 

Forwards or backwards,

past or future.

Not forgetting the sweet moments of present.

 

 

Poetry

Arms

Arms that wrap, tight, safe

fingers holding firm on shoulders.

Massaging tired body, mind

release from the daily hounding.

Even if it’s just for a moment, less than a minute,

a second snatched in a silent room,

a quiet corner free from the hungry

crowd of nattering, gossiping, whispering

eyes that see much

yet nothing at all.

A hug

they think.

A promise

we say.

Poetry

Bliss

Your eyes will tell me all I need to know;

they can ask the greatest question,

and give the most honest answer.

 

One concept merging with another,

taking the rough ore of the mind and smelting it

into a pure resonance of the feeling inside.

 

Then everyone else appears.

Cosmic balance has been thrown asunder — they casually waltz into this space,

shattering, roaring like an ocean, waves crashing hard.

Up goes your invisible barrier, concealing

my best friend.

 

But I remember

falling asleep to your heartbeat

pulsing against my ear.

 

I know you’ll always let me in.

You gave me a key after all.

And as our fingers link, those emotions you keep contained

can finally be set free.

 

Like you’ve done for me,

I’ll squeeze the bad thoughts away

so that you can be cheerful again.

Poetry

Close by

It’s in the subtle spark as you look at me,

the shadow of a grin,

unsure, nervous, hopeful.

When the group hugs goodbye,

and ours lasts just a fraction longer than everyone else’s.

Standing closer each day, unspoken,

but unable to go unnoticed

by either of us.

It’s in the reach of my hand

and the answering touch of yours.

It’s there when our fingers lock together.

Solid, at last.

 

 

Poetry

This love

The page is white. Bright, brilliant.

Seeping onto it are reds, blues,

greens, purples, yellows.

There are no eyes,

but there are lips,

and an embrace, so close that the colours

merge, the figures

separate but still one.

Their clothes are plain,

because how can any garment

outshine the prism inside?

Poetry

H.U.Gs

We sell heaters for 99p. They’ll not oil filled, or gas fueled; not even blower heaters. They’re fleshy and warm: heart utilization generators. H.U.Gs for short. Most people walk straight past them, not trusting them to be efficient enough for their needs. So they sit there on the shelf, year in, year out, gathering dust. I thought I’d tidy them up today, display them a bit better. I sold two in twenty minutes. The buyers were the happiest customers I’ve ever seen.