Baby Teeth

I pray not to be kept

only for sentiment
like milk teeth in a vitamin jar;

distastefully disregarded - but not discarded

high up on a dust sheeted shelf.

I'd have no room for growth

already extracted
and discoloured with age;

an empty keepsake - a cluttered headache

that no nostalgic pill could remedy.

And I pray don't liken my love
to the taste of Calpol,

    sickly saccharine and sweet;

nor that friendly smile - gone for a while

replaced by a bitter tasting scowl.

Instead you should hold on

to what's relevant now

and the teeth that serve you best;

to chew and grind - but never merely to remind

as some torn and toothless trophy.

New Block

Laundry detergent invades the air, 

stifling the petrichor concoction

that collides with the swept leaves

discarded to the cobwebbed corner

where the puddles declare soles out of bounds.

Freshly baked biscuits stake their claim,

packaged neatly with plastic and ribbon 

but they too crumble to the scent

of disintegrating damp wood

burning black and iridescent red.

Smoke rises into the crepuscular sky

and is ushered away by the wind,

the fire crackles on as biscuits are opened

and freshly made beds are disturbed

as childish feet disturb leaf piles under amber glow.

Plunge

The breeze would gladly meet

her hesitant feet

as they cross and reach to the end.

Like great grinning teeth

the waves and rocks greet,

waiting to embrace their new friend.

Her earbuds dangle at her chest

faintly exhaling their best

eulogy for their oldest of friends.

She would feel blessed

to ride on that crest,

but that's not how this song ends.

She would see no hope

in that dangling rope

that offered to pull her to land.

Nor would she cope

with the strain of the grope

or the embarrassment of stretching her hand.

She'd wait for clouds to part,

her favourite song to start,

and then steady her now trembling hands.

Then she would brace her heart

and finally alone, she'd depart

thinking "This is living" as she lands.

Skydive

Life is a skydive, descending from heaven.

We see flashes of beauty, experience moments of excitement.

Some may feel safe to know they are in the hands of others

whilst some brave going it alone,

but all of it is a distraction

from the downwards spiral that starts

precisely when we realise we are falling

and ends only at our death.

Planes Mistaken For Stars

Planes mistaken for stars

and I thought I saw your car

take a sharp right

in the calm of the night.

I counted and gave them all stories

imagining their burning glories

but my dream was cut short

effectively taken off life support.

I thought that I'd have to wrench

myself from this bench

as the residents gazed

at a man alone and crazed.

So I slowly trudged my way

to a cage of bricks and dismay

to see your car there, parked

and the clouds had left the skies unmarked.