My Poetry: Since There Wasn't You

Since There Wasn't You

---

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

since the face in the mirror
was recognisable as mine 
as it walked out the door.

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

since the sun rose on the day
and the flowers bought for you
stopped showing their beauty.

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

since the old time records 

my loneliness used in lieu of a lover

lost their charm.

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

since each meal became a chore
and the fork in our roads
left me starved of your kiss.

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

now the man you left to rot

 hums a new tune
as a new you beckons him forth.

It's been a month or more
and I'm forgetting you were here.

My Poetry: I think of all the words

I think of all the words

---

I think of all the words,
both those I wished I had
and had not said.
Remember the times
when words were useless
kicking through Autumn leaves,
watching you smile
realising I loved you.
The naivety of asking you
never to leave,
how with a curve of balmed lips
you said, you never would
but you broke
so many things
along with your promise.

My Poetry: The Pianist

The Pianist

---

The wizened pianist plays
old blues standards
beneath a peeling sign
that reads
‘Wonderland Inn’ -
but nobody believes it.
He plays each night
till dawn
for money and company
matching each regret
with whiskey and beer.
He plays soft,
almost silent,
for himself,
and fast

for the hearts
on the dance floor as they
gamble for a kiss,
like broke poker players
who would rather

cheat the dealer
than acknowledge their luck.

A still from Casablanca

My Poetry: Her Hands were Warm

Her Hands were Warm

---

Her hands were warm
where yours were cold.

Love disappeared,
 a stranger to us both.

 

I never meant to let you know
that way, but it happened,

when I wasn’t sure
if purity existed,

so when she pointed to salvation
I took that lethal dose

and now the high is wearing thin
I realise that love is starting again

without prejudice or past
and without believing it will last.

So babs I don’t mind who you wake with tomorrow
just know you’re on my mind right now.

My Poems: I'm An Achiever...

I'm An Achiever...

---

I’m an achiever,
but my achievements
mean nothing to those
who have always achieved.

I’m an achiever,
because I’ve broken
from the chains
that kill dreams.

I’m an achiever,
because now my dreams
are more than hopes
no matter how much I regress.
 

I'm an acheiver

because no matter my regressions

I know the path

needed to to grow.

 

I’m an achiever,
because I grow
with each heart I touch
and each one I lose.

 

I’m an achiever,
but my true achievements
mean nothing to those
who prefer power and money.

My Poetry: A Winter's Kiss

A Winter's Kiss

---

The sun set slow
over slate sea
the wind howled
cold across the beach
you tied a red scarf
tight
round your throat
and buttoned the buttons
on your grey duffle coat
against the winter.
We held hands,
for the first time

that night,
as from a wet bench
we watched
the Christmas lights dance
off the pavement puddles,
like fairies.
We laughed about
our life, our friends 

the drizzle
until our shy hands met
for a second time,
then,

without knowing,
we shared our first kiss.

Still taken from Breakfast at Tiffany's

My Poetry: Waiting for a Train at 7.35

Waiting for a Train at 7.35

---

The dark cold
hugs the strangers
standing around,
motionless,
staring at the tracks
waiting for a thought
waiting for a lover
waiting, just waiting.

I look across
the fading station
at the ugly tranny
holding court
with freeks and geeks
who are all discussing
Shakespeare's poems
that he's translated into German
for the Dada scholars.

When the tannoy lady
says something
about the 7.39
from platform four
to Brighton town.

The train arrives,
and I take a seat
opposite an expensive suit
with shades of grey
in his eyes
and yesterday's paper
on his knee.
And I'm jealous...of his shoes
and he's jealous...of my freedom
and I want to ask him to swap
but he gets off
in Moulscoomb
before I can be bothered.

The train doors slide
and metal rattles
on metal beneath me
lights shimmer across the city
as we glide over the rooftops
I can see through the windows
of homes:
people making tea.

Then that tannoy lady says:
'This station is Brighton,
please leave
for other connections.'