Poetry

The kings of our past

Your footprints are swamped by his

no matter how old you get, how tall you grow or how wise.

Because the ghosts will always contort the mirror

so you appear small, a mere cub

hiding in his father’s shadow.

Poetry

Ten thousand steps and counting

We can go years without connecting with anyone.

Passing comments with associates, laughing at their jokes,

offering background information.

Some say that is connecting.

But it’s not.

Not on a level where

all illusions dissipate,

body language relaxes and accents sneak back in

to chilled speech.

Not on a level where you know what the other is thinking,

gather a conversation of meaning

from one gesture

and laugh just from the slight twinkle

in each other’s eyes.

We can go years without that,

and then one day

stumble into the realisation that the right person

was there all along,

and together

you squeeze the friendship

of those years

into a month or two, and go on

as if it’s always been that way.

Poetry

Guiding ropes

I can hold out my hands

and know that if I stumble, trip, stagger, fall,

one of you

(and let’s face it, more often than not, both of you)

will catch me and guide me back

onto the path I want to walk.

Yes, not pushing, guiding 

because you both know

that my feet will not work if my mind doesn’t want to tread.

Poetry

Lazy Afternoon Rambles

As the week comes to a close

and our schedules open up

to be the holes that form notes

in a music box’s song,

 

I hold out my hand

so we can touch palm to palm.

 

It would be a waste

if we didn’t use this time to spark

 

off each other, mind to mind,

whether it takes a stroll in the mist

or an afternoon melting into the sofa

 

with words tumbling over each other

from the waterfalls that we call lips.

 

Stand with me, my friend,

and let us be.