Category Poems
In the form of a ray of light
That slowly begins to scatter
Against the darkest of the night
Blinded no more are we
On our hopes that were forlorn
Now that we finally see
The light of darkness’ morn
It is time that has done me
Made me feel old when I was young
And look old when I feel young
Sure I chased you
And never found you
But you kept that spark alive
squinting eyes
behind curtains netted
faces onto the street
to snare a fresh gossip
smeared by a bad mind
carelessly harming
him or her
play – staged a small street
a clean name…linen hall
and let me watch you
unfold
like the tongue
of a butterfly.
Probe my pistils
and my stamen.
I am
the rarest flower,
the chocolate orchid;
Before we met I knew
That somehow, some way,
You were mine.
Through foggy, disjointed
Sleeping images
Your hand touched mine
And I felt the heat.
So heavy is my
Soul,
A burden on the
Soles of your feet.
Your curves
Flow like a
River to the
Sea of
Becoming.
How I have abused your
Unassuming welcome –
Ravished receptacle for my
Loss of
Faith.
but I want to be your last
I don’t care what’s happened before
the past is the past
I counted the scabbed bits littering my heart
And picked them off quickly,
so no one would see
All of the damage that
they’d done to me
But it hurt when I pulled,
and all the bits bled
It made my heart ache, and
it stained my hands red
Shines,
She will have been ripped and scorned
By a force not benign,
The sky will close up with scores
Of infinite grey,
And you will burn with the pain
Of him having passed away,
There will come a day when the leaves no longer
Grow,
They will have been plucked and fallen
Down the darkest hole,
The branches will droop diminished
And you will sacrifice your hope
Of saving his last few minutes,
This air is the air of an oven,
it is so deathly hot.
For days the sun has been crisping the microbes.
A boy has disappeared from the village.
2AM and the foothills of the Pyrénées
lit with light flashes between the dark spaces of trees,
foliage on foliage.
Sparks of light glitter the mountain sides.
Up here- mountains before us, village below us-
it’s like an ant farm, lines of lights
following the twists and turns between
row after row of houses
scaling slowly into the mountains
for the third consecutive night.
II.
The day it happened,
we’d walked into the foothills,
