Winter Haiku

Winter afternoons

when I forget what blue is,

your eyes remember

SINGLE

A single sunflower
in the absence of sun

windswept rays
of a swaying refugee

capturing bliss
like a beaming nun

gripping her gilded
bible with glee;

I have no way
of knowing the real you

or getting closer
than the last few feet

each time I see
your face, it’s true

though now it’s so rare
that we ever meet;

once, all was light
and they floated to me

all the shivering ladies
and goose bump breasts

and afterwards, we
would all seem free

of life’s little trials
and worthless tests;

the cold has arrived
here much too early

and the days are begging
for scraps of light

I’m still reaching, but
it’s always nearly

and our flimsy passion
will never ignite.

Her Purest Trick

I watch trembling
leaf shadows on the wall
and feel that I can cope
with winter and the dark

if the sun still
bounds along the hall
like golden retrievers
in the frosty park

astounding light
climbs the wooden door
and creeps across
the kitchen table

like soothing waves
licking the shore,
always moving,
never stable;

yet her gentle knock
never seems to come,
I know the bell
is no longer working

the sound of love
is a distant drum,
rarely seen, though
it might be lurking

there is some comfort
in this draughty light
even when the clouds
are damp and thick

she can still surprise
in soft dreams at night,
quivering beauty –
her purest trick.

LIFEBOAT

I imagined you
would save me
in the lifeboat
of your arms

and take me
to your cosy
little cottage
of fire and shells,

we could lie
in every morning
ignoring
the alarms

and never see
the workers
as they drive
to prison cells.

I knew that
you would see
beyond my shabby
outer self

and tears came
like boulders -
the harbour wall
cracking;

it had seemed
that we
were just left
on the shelf,

pretending
that nothing
could ever be
lacking.

We listened
to the sea,
lying naked
by the flame

and I was happy
to drown in
fathomless
eyes,

we turned
our two-backed
beast, on fortune
and fame

believing
their world
was nothing, but
lies.


Staithes, Yorkshire - click image to grow

THE POET IN LOVE

Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

Finding expression
in words, not flesh

rolling sad eyes
to the sky above

eternal emotions
ancient, and fresh.

Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

With a fragrant lady
on the bus, or beach

and then to lose
the soaring dove

to stretch an arm
and overreach.

Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

Instead of working hard
like normal folk

some would like
to give a shove

into the real world
beyond a joke.

Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

When others are happy
to fight a war

refusing armour
or protective glove

begging his muse
for a little bit more.

Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

Not really knowing
the reasons why

dreaming soft breasts
dangling above

and fleshy buttocks,
supple thigh.