I Wish

I wish I could explain
just how much I miss you
how I’m longing to hear your voice
again for a little while
to have the comfort of it
a little longer
I wish I could voice
the words I want to say
that I miss you
and it overwhelms me at the most unexpected times
when I’m not asking for it at all
when I feel that these feelings are past.

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The Sound of Something Dying

 

and then I’m back in that room again
waiting
waiting
listening to the muffled sound
of footsteps
the ticking of machines
the stuffy air
the world outside so far away
and the knowledge
that somewhere
close by
something
is dying.

Pining

I pine for summer
but now I’m craving
the familiarity of autumn books
that seem to shine orange and red
and brown and smell like warm drinks
and plenty of layers;
stories that glow warmth
and make me feel at one again.

The Photograph

in the photograph, you look
just like her, it’s like looking
in a mirror, the only thing
separating us is time
and the fact that I never knew you
and you’re in black and white
frozen forever in posterity
hands clasped, eyes gazing
at something just off camera
and I can only see
what’s reflected in your eyes,
while I live
in a colour world
that you don’t know.

Blues

 

and then, without warning, as autumn
arrived and enveloped them,
a sadness swept over her,
one that couldn’t be explained
as it pressed down on her
beating against her chest
so that her limbs became heavy
and her brain thick
with a longing and sadness
for something she couldn’t
quite put her finger on.

The Old Photo

I

The photo has been torn in half
and then clumsily repaired with some tape
that has now become brittle and yellow.
It’s hard to tell if the tear
was deliberate
although each half
shows a figure, the tear right down the middle
as if done in anger or hate
before being repaired
by an unknown hand
and then stored carefully away.

The colours are faded now
the sepia tired and worn
a relic from the past
with a story
no one can tell.

II

The photo is in sepia
the corners are curling
and it is battered
as if it has survived many moves
and been handled many times
passing from person to person,
cherished and loved as time has passed
and memory has begun to fade
identity from those who see it.

Now the figure is nothing more than that –
a curious relic from the past
a figure someone once knew
an image once cherished.
Now, it is passed over, from hand to hand
curious eyes look at it, marvel at the figure
without knowing who it is.

III

It’s hanging on the wall
a portrait from another time
a black and white photograph
of a girl staring candidly
at the camera
eyes deep, a fixed expression.
There are pearls around her neck
and her hands are clasped
as she stares at the camera
as if staring into the very soul
of the one who took it.

The Writer’s Manifesto

Give me half an hour of peace
and a desk to write at,
a pen or pencil, and a notebook.

 

Give me a morning to daydream away
to conjure up worlds and magic
and drink coffee while I’m busy
in my own head.

 

Give me space to return to other worlds
to sail away across the seas
to a place that nobody knows of but me.

 

Give me time alone to be at one
in my own mind
to put words to paper
even if they don’t mean much
they make me feel better
and then I’m all yours –
for a few hours at least.

 

The Wave Breaks

The wave breaks
on the shore
and rolls out as

 

life pauses for a moment
before continuing undisturbed;
the sea the master of its own destiny.

 

The wave breaks,
the world keeps on turning
regardless of the time or place

 

and where you and I are,
without a thought for the absurdity
of this thing we call life.

 

The wave breaks
as the sailor out at sea is rocked to sleep,
lulled into a sense of security.

 

He is alone, far away from anything
that might be called civilisation,
but he is at home.

 

The wave breaks
upon the shore
where I stand

 

feet buried in the sand
listening to the sound of water
rolling back and forth

 

as nature intended,
and I, I finally feel at one,
here on this beach, hundreds of miles away
where I stand alone.

 

Autumn

Autumn is here and I long

for those long sunny days

when we walked about barefoot,

short sleeves, picnicked

in the sunshine, sand between our toes.

 

Autumn is here and summer is gone for real

I think as the rain outside

hammers down, the streets and skies

grey and dull, the colours have seeped

away so that now, we’re living

in black and white.

On the Road

Another road, another unfamiliar car park

on the road again

destination unknown,

journey to be decided.

 

On the road again,

with a car full of gear

and anticipation in the air.

 

On the road again

with sand between my toes

and sea water at my feet.