Seconds between

 

I don't have anywhere I'd ever rather be,

or anyone with whom I'd rather

share this moonlit view.

I don't have another life I'd rather

live within, or another sight

I'd rather see than you.

 

I'm happy to just exist

in this moment,

watching the starlight satellites

darting majestically across your eyes.

 

I don't have any words I need to say,

or any fears left within me.

I just want to feel your lips

pressed against mine.

To believe in something truly divine.

 

I'm happy to just exist

on the whispers you leave,

which taste of hope and feel like dreams.

To weave in dance through the air

that we breathe,

believing in forever and the seconds between.

 

And, in loving sighs, I only want to share

with the starlight of my life, every droplet of care

that rains down upon us.

Every word of insight sung silently

on sleepless nights.

 

I don't have anywhere I'd rather be,

or another pathway laid before me.

I only want to hear you talk and share

in the story of your life,

for when we walk side by side,

I feel like my heart is flying high.

I have no-one I'd rather grow old beside

as the sunlight rides the heavens

and our minds glide on the golden

currents of forever skies.

Served Up Raw

 

Being a poet

is a lot like being a chef.

 

We rummage through

our mental cold storage,

picking only the finest pieces,

the freshest ingredients

to form the basis of the

banquet that we wish to be serving.

 

Scouring timeworn shelves

for zesty herbs of yesterday

which deliver that zing of flavour,

a faded reminder of a lazy Sunday

making love under the heat haze

of a summer sun.

 

A fingertip pinched sprinkle

of tear-stained seasoning

enhancing the taste.

Delicately bringing to life

long ago days. The citrus blast

of the wind in your face.

 

Every bittersweet memory,

like hearing for the first time

those beautiful, fragrant words

'I love you' knowing they will never sing

quite the same way again.

The pain felt when love walked away.

 

The flames lick the pan,

oiled with the scent of the flowers.

For, some things we heat,

others need serving up raw.

When hope was reborn

as your heart starts to race

with each new passing hour.

 

Then we start to cut.

 

Skills sharpened over time.

Delicately trimming the fat,

skimming the grime,

until we are left with something

clean, clear, divine. A crystal lake

under moonlight shine.

 

A placeholder image

in piecemeal mind.

A final serving suggestion

on this meal of life. We pair it

with a heart that feels sublime,

like that first sip of love,

from this glass of mine.

 

But until it is on the table

it is still being refined.

We take a dash of memory,

a jot of story, a person met

one long ago night in a club

that was noisy and the

lighting would blind.

 

We take our ingredients,

every ingrained moment

of life lived, or seen,

ever stage we have shared,

every melody we’ve been.

And gradually we start to glean

which flavours create the image foreseen.

 

Then after toiling hard,

we wash down the surfaces,

scrubbing clean the reminders,

the strands of history, the shavings of memory,

then we start again.

 

A clean chopping board

and some new ingredients

to bring to our story.

 

Whilst out in the dining room

Waiters dance around almost unobserved.

The plate is served and devoured.

The tongue lingers on a flavour, a memory.

Childhood, a moment from a picture book,

like being hooked, as they are swirled

like their glass of wine.

To a life that they may

have lived once upon a time.

The cost of bread

 

When did you stop

believing in dreams,

in miracles, in fairytales,

in fantasy themes?

When did you become

 

so cynical?

 

Was it when you

stopped seeing

beyond the 9 to 5,

the cycle of time

repeating out of control?

Behind the newsprint lies

their ink-stained dividing lines.

Was it when this all

polluted your mind?

 

When did you become

so steadfast, believing

that magic had passed?

Untrusting, in happiness,

thinking that life

was just a slow motion

march to be dead,

last.

 

Did you lose your way,

when the seeds you threw

barely grew?

Only small green sprouts,

not the extravagant stalks

stories talk about.

Did that cause you to jack it all in,

throwing belief to the wind?

Did you forget to water it

with dreams,

to give it the nutrients it needs

to grow tall and thrive

on the stories you reap?

 

When did you let them

grind down your bones,

like the storied giants threatened?

Did you make your bread?

 

Whilst ignoring those lessons,

whilst reaching for the wrong stars.

 

Did that push the

happiness from your head

and leave you only seeing the world

in shades of grey,

not the colours presented

if you open your mind instead?