Bare Branches

I look out to see the branches are bare

but I don't remember seeing leaves fall.

It seems we go from having it all there

seamlessly to having nothing at all.

It makes me wonder just when did they leave

and where have the vibrant times gone?

Has the sun merely had a small reprieve

or has the light permenantly moved on?

I know that there will be new leaves to grow

but there's a cold winter to endure first,

and if the branches can shake off the snow

then I can cope with old leaves being dispersed.

We've suffered the season's sudden refresh

but we can look forward to starting afresh.

Sea Legs

I gazed as your saliferous hair

slapped upon the sunset rocks

of a sangria sea.

From out of the mist 

my searchlight came

seeking your signal

to close in on the cooling evening.

Yet the waters are too rough,

I am dehydrated

and I have lost my sea legs.

A Cold and Lonely Embrace

Nothing stirred the

empty flaking seat; -

not even the leaves cast

off of tall pines

dared to take spot from the empty chest

that waited for its missing piece to come.

And so they waited, taking half the bench

and watching the frail hands of the watch tick

steadily ahead to disappointment

and to empty arms resting on cold knees

As the shadows of the trees slowly grew

the face of the watch shined in the sunset,

the hours opening the metal arms

as if to console the teary-eyed soul.

A Blue Fire

The moonless midnight

is ignited by a spark;

engulfing the dark

and capturing my heart.

But the same heart knows

only sorrows can transpire

from this wild fire

that I've allowed to start.

And yet, although I wince,

I can't convince myself to dowse the flame

nor let it tame,

but only to bask in its heat.

Her name was taken by the wind,

a rescind of that spark

now taken by dark;

the promise of Heaven in wistful retreat.

A High Street in December

The middle-aged mother meanders merrily,

marveling at carefully arranged window displays,

taking the stretch of pavement with her

life-long bags full of wrapping paper, socks, wine

and the latest toys advertised on Saturday morning television;

there's even a little something for herself

clutched in her right hand, the handles of that particular bag

now ingraining red lines into her frost kissed skin.

Meanwhile morose men moodily make an attempt

to move past the moderate pace of the myopic mother,

making a play to dart in the road where

there's a window of opportunity to squeeze past,

however the 4x4 vehicle puts a stop to that, the driver

making an awful attempt at parallel parking into a space

which, in honesty, is large enough to fit a whole squadron of sleighs;

the man sighs, glancing at his watch, resigned to the fact his train has gone.

The children in the back of the oversized car squabble

over the song choice on their shared music device,

making no attempt to put it away as their father had asked

although in honesty the father would much rather put on a song himself

which reminds him of when Christmas used to mean something to him;

something that might tear away the tedium of sitting

on a cheap plastic faux-leather sofa in the changing rooms

of a budget fashion chain as he gives as small nod of acknowledgement

to the men who share his plight, tapping their feet as wives desperately search

for the garments that might let them reclaim their youth.

Meanwhile, the beggar attempts to benefit from

the well documented "Christmas Spirit", shaking his twenty pence pieces

in his coffee cup, hoping that the charitable might fund

his next meal as they plan their extended family's feast,

but he doesn't count on their short, impatient temperaments

wanting to endure this annual task as efficiently as possible,

so they pointedly avert his pleading gaze,

looking down at their phones or up to the billboards;

anywhere but into his eyes.

All of the citizens floating along in their own snowflaked bubbles.

I Miss

I miss

the subtle rise and fall

of your back as you

inhale                      —                      exhale;

your lungs gently cradling

the oxygen that lulls

you to sleep.

I miss

being able to tuck your tangles

of hair behind your ears

my 'tips                      —                      touching;

gliding gently down your spine

then returning

to your skull.

I miss

the strand of stringed saliva

that slowly dances

from lips                      —                      to cheek;

as your open mouth

and your tight eyes

paint you in peace.

I miss

the confusion on your face

as your exhalation wakes

your dream                      —                      huh;

as you groggily ask

what has happened and

I giggle.

I miss

your sleepy protests as

the banshee alarm

blares                      —                      alerts;

it demands for us to greet

a new day and you demand

five more minutes.

I miss

the subconscious roll

towards my icy side of the bed

arms stretched                      —                      grasping;

pulling me closer as your

half-alert lips curl

into a contented smile.

Cold Tea

In the cup's chamber, a teabag infused 

and was decidedly discarded - 

happy that it could make the brew strong.

Perhaps enough for one more use,

never as satisfying as the first;

and though perhaps enough to quench the thirst

nobody once those last dregs loose

and left lying for far too long.

And so the teabag, so lowly regarded

was left cold and then politely refused.

Reflections Refracted

The bus passes by

reflecting my visage in its windows.

My countenance shifts and changes

as though on a pond

disturbed by a pebble.

Yet the fish are still and placid.

Alone in Kyoto

I saw the city pavement

— a whirl of activity

I saw the glamour and movement

— a swirl of anonymity 

Sharp faces, sharp clothes.

Bright streets, dark woe.

Lost Network

I like to wake
before the tinny jingle
of my phone's alarm,

when

I can get good and lost

in the vast countryside

where

it's like I'm the only human on earth,

but only as long as

the network signal is strong enough

that I can be assured my isolation

is a temporary fantasy.

Sequestration at Sea

My aimless heart dances atop a tide-free ocean

with no pull to bring him to shore.

I know that he does not mind being at sea

but my mind's not as sure anymore.

I can't decide if I'm more frightened at getting stranded

or that it's what I hold deep within my will.

You see, at heart I am still a buoy

who is destined to stay innocently still.

With luck, I will be led to safety by a lighthouse

and arrive at your body of land.

A life spent avoiding being on the rocks

might prevent me caressing the sand.

So I will concentrate on making my life a speck

barely seen by hostile telescopes.

I will sail as far away as I can

then drop the anchor and cut the ropes.

Night Shames

Composing conversations

in my head

with the ideal conclusions

to relieve dread.

But what I can construct

within a thought

is never completely construed

the way it ought.

And so I must recompose

with blushing shame

a peripheral panicked past

penned to my name.

Crossed Paths

There is a saccharine romance,

a scenario spoiled by chance

when passing by a stranger

known only by a smile and glance.

And so the sweetness is subdued

to its lonely circumstance,

in a crossing of dreamy eyes

which can both beguile and entrance.

Both parties go separate ways

whilst their minds skip, hand in hand

both pondering what could have been

if confidence had more command...

A Cat In Hell's Chance

A girl I know, or at least wish I did,

she had a certain way.

She always seemed to look through my skin

when I was out of things to say.

I'd make bland comments about the weather

and ask about her day.

She'd reply with an indifferent sniff

knowing my acting meek.

Her social skills had gained her fans;

my own made me feel weak.

Yet, despite myself, I unsheathed my tongue

and dared myself to speak.

She used well known aphorisms

to ward off romance.

But who condemned the cat to hell

and who gave that cat no chance?
I posed to her these ponderings
and asked her for a dance.
And so it was that philosophy
out-jostled social wit,
and even with the blandest badinage
you can be well read and writ.
There may have been no sunset fandango
but I'm happy with my lit.

Fading into Greyscale

Tangled up in severed threads,

my oldest friends they want me dead.

A rainbow sketched in black and white

drowns my eyes in silver light.

You fill me up with old laments,

a message that I never sent;

a memory that I can't recall,

a tale that's grown a bit too tall.

On the Shore

Pressing through the unmitigated chaos

to come upon the calm shoreline-

a border to the ocean of my thoughts

whose waves are sleepily directed

by the whispers of my mind.

Lone as I am, standing on the grains

of my imagination's beach,

I cannot help but enjoy the humbling pressure

of discovering it all myself.

Yet I will not deny

that discovery is greater shared.

I keep looking for myself along the sand,

secretly hoping

that you will discover me instead.

Gazeless

My words may not mean much to you.

They elicit no response

and they will hang like stars,

which are always there.

You could wait until the night,

maybe then you’d see them

but you would still have to

choose to look up

and I don’t expect that you will.

Bed

Over-eager summer nights

strip me naked drenched in sweat.

The window is no escape

nor her hazy cigarette.

Autumn evening's welcome sigh,

a brisk breath against my bed.

Her acclimatising bliss

soon brings warmth to where I'm led.

Yet winter's kiss is far too cold

which lingers along my back.

Her sheets shake my shivering spine,

living in sincerity's lack.

Truth is, I can't blame the seasons

for the discomfort night brings.

It's the lonely side of the bed

which brings the coldest of my stings.

Café Blues

Who runs the sundown coffee joints
at the close of Night and Day?
I have spare time and money
without a place to pay.
There's a premium of rowdy bars
with loud voices and louder shirts
but it all smells so superficial
with egos as high as the girls' skirts.
Just take me in from the cold
and keep my caffeine from going low.
It's another sin-free Friday night
and I have no place to go.

Woven Blanket

A mile long bed, with room to spare 

and a blanket that I’ve woven from your hair

found in the plughole of the shower,

and I still need

every last piece of you

wrapped around me.