It's a secret

I think I might possibly be starting to love you.
Ssshhhhh, don't tell anyone.

Words for Rachael

A broken heart is an ugly thing
All jagged and ripped and torn
It barely beats and keeps no rhythym
and holds weight that can scarcely be born.

A broken heart will brood in the dark
Guarding closely its sadness and shame
Not realising in its weakened state
The true beauty it yet retains.

But hearts will heal and the sun will warm
Your bones in their tired frame
To smile again and see once more
the hope that remains just the same.

So trust, my girl, trust my words
and those of your sisters true
that we, who walked in the dark before you
have survived and returned to bloom.

Vanish

Look! I've spilled the words right down my chest
to fall and stain my favourite dress
The one I wore the day we met
when words meant less and looks meant more.

Not now though

Today the words are more than here
and leave no doubt as to where we are.
A bit bitter with just a hint of a twist
giving double meaning where one would do.

And I look at you

Thinking back to the time of looks and touches
when meanings were clear and the time was always now
I wonder if we could go back there
But then I look at me dress and think no.

Too many words now.

Dog Days and Wolf Nights

Grey blue eyes look up to the night
and wide mouths howl their prayers.
In the frost of the dark they bay welcome
To their distant deity above.

The bright orb smiles down beautifically
a benevolence they rarely receive
so the gaping maws and the wagging tails
revel and cavort in its pale cool light.

Cold Heart

The cold hearted girl feels the thaw

of little icicles as they fall off her heart

and she blames him, that boy -

that wolf eyed boy who smiles at her

and sniffs her with his aquiline nose.

She stamps her foot and pouts,

pulling her frosty shawl tighter.

She scrutinises the words he writes,

tries to pull apart their meaning and

stares them down until they cower.

But the icicles are still falling

And her heart is still thawing

So up come the words to be stroked

and kised until they shiver with pleasure.

Early Days

At the first smell of Autumn
Your jaguar cat and your neighbour at dawn
And your friend in the car park
At Maidstone East station
All turned to each other
And whispered the news.
They're painting the gate
To their memory lane.

This is courtesy of DSW, an angel in wolf's clothing...Nice innit

Wasted Perfection

Imagine Seeing a body unscarred

Left clean of the marks of motherhood

Smooth skin without ripples or flaws

Stretched tight over un dammaged muscles.

Imagine the feel of high, full breasts

never bullied by tiny mouths and fists

A firmness with a give and return

A natural resistance not yet lost to age.

Imagine a stomach without the empty pouch

Without the tiger stripes of reproduction

a stomach whose insides have never been pushed aside

Rudely displaced by expanding life.

Imagine a body, so ripe and ready

Aching to be plucked from the barren tree

The last fruit swaying high in the branches

Forlorn but never fallen, never fulfilled.