Hands

 

One cannot force the hand of fate

You are a child at the playground’s locked gate

She is the Italian train, forever late

Or the distracted friend on a coffee date

“sorry there in ten”

Sit tight and wait

 

One cannot slow the hands of time

Her heavy fruit falls from the vine

Another birthday, spill some wine

A final, exquisite aria line

audience encore

how sublime!

No Vacancy

Perhaps there is no vacancy

within this heart of mine

Barren chambers barely fill

if bound by knotted twine
Perhaps you think you’ve found the key

That it should slide in

easily

Yet, even words of graphite dust

shall fail against the lock’s

red

rust

 
Perhaps in time you shall forget

but Dearest,

don’t stop trying yet
Happy mid week to all the hopeless romantics. 

Last page

Somewhere

in a musty corner of a book store

sit I

Beneath yellowed newsprint and papers high

 

Neither first edition nor collector’s find

A battered book

beyond it’s prime

The gilded print worn off my spine

 

Regard my tufted leather edge

from forlorn lover’s finger pledge

Cotton binding frayed by touch

 

So let me rest in dust some more

by the sombre Mahler score

my last page ripped out

years before

Knock knock

Let love in

when she taps at your door

Ask once “who is it?”

and thereafter, question no more

 

Invite her to dine at your table

offer the comfortable chair

Pour her a fruity elixir

serve fresh oysters…

if you dare!

 

Gather your courage and ask her

“Did you get lost on the way?”

how you had given up waiting

“Not ready” she will quietly say

 

A simple Saturday night ditty 🙂

Tea Room

That frail silhouette

with elegant pose

says nothing of her tortured substance

Says nothing of her subterranean scars

Her caves of suffocated conflict

Mouth barely above water line

 

She sips the tisane tincture tentatively

adding damp to dryness

Roiboos red lips

atop a sanguine scar

 

Suppress a shielded stare

least she turns your way and speaks

familiar tone

sister unknown

 

Seasons

She throws snowballs at the sun

Squinting with laughter abundant and true

Gasps at chromatic aberrations on eyelash tips

Ice flecks of rainbow prism dew

 

Her winter glides gracefully into spring

with daisy chains and purple peony pastime

Grass scuffed knees under shredded dress

Skips meadows humming a nonsence rhyme

 

And as summers creep and memory fades

the years they pass with startling pace

Nurture well your child within

Mirror kiss her seasoned face

I am the "little armored one", moving gently through life. Hoping to safeguard my sensitivities with layers of words and the expression of thought. Shielding my mirror neurons at times, or tasting music and spinning till I'm dizzy. Every moment here is a gift.