Missing You
It is as if you never left
as if your eyes still cast glances
over my shoulder,
as if you continue
to pass on your wise counsel.
On days like today
where the bushes burn bright
against the green and blue, I think
of you, wish yet again
that you had not gone
before I was ready to say goodbye,
and wish again for one more smile
before the tears flow, unrelentless.
I till my fields, cull the weeds
until I am left with stark skeletons
and it is only when you nudge me
as they stand shivering,
I realise they hunger for warmth. Now
even the wind has left me,
and on days like today
when the sun has forgotten to smile
I practice acting, nod, listening
to all, still wishing you had not left
so soon.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Sunday, May 04, 2008
In dying
..........you lay almost flat,
mirroring the bared boughs
of long sleep
staging the last lonely stance
between aired veins
and empty.
..........You lay,
eyes unfocused locally,
mind fastened to a schoolgirl
in braids and braces,
one whose fast-paced dreams
would forever be
partially filled.
..........You lay
quietly waiting
and watching something
we can not see,
some promise
yet to be chosen.
..........you lay almost flat,
mirroring the bared boughs
of long sleep
staging the last lonely stance
between aired veins
and empty.
..........You lay,
eyes unfocused locally,
mind fastened to a schoolgirl
in braids and braces,
one whose fast-paced dreams
would forever be
partially filled.
..........You lay
quietly waiting
and watching something
we can not see,
some promise
yet to be chosen.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Promises
Lazy smiles and smokey eyes beckon
from the glossy covers of tomorrow's mags,
print promise on my eyes
and repaint my blood red.
I watch them drape, curve
skin across fold-outs touting
cheap perfume that stinks boardrooms
and makeup that masks
blemishes deep as the soul.
I turn the page, leave them
waiting like the dreams and hopes
in my handbag. I want
world peace, and I want
the promises too.
Lazy smiles and smokey eyes beckon
from the glossy covers of tomorrow's mags,
print promise on my eyes
and repaint my blood red.
I watch them drape, curve
skin across fold-outs touting
cheap perfume that stinks boardrooms
and makeup that masks
blemishes deep as the soul.
I turn the page, leave them
waiting like the dreams and hopes
in my handbag. I want
world peace, and I want
the promises too.