do you think you will notice them more now, my love?

it is mentioned that you may not be present next year,

that your age is wrong.

all is agreed, we plan for the future, diaries intact.

do you think you may ponder more, my love?

or simply play in the lane, laughter ringing

this autumn air.

my love.

some trees die.

sbm.

I was ten when
I got caught stealing
blue chalk from the pool hall.

My daddy wore me out
with a black leather belt.

He said *What'd I tell you
about writing sad poems
on the back of the stones
at the orphan's graveyard?

Take all of my belongings; pictures of
Beloved ones and grandmother's bible.
Just leave me a piece of paper and my
Will to describe the memory of my losses.

I take the pen for granted, as one does when
Leaving a bank in deeper debt.
One man's advertisement is another poet's
Tool.

I, Poet, would arise in the morning and praise
My tiny square of window, even with its
Iron bars.
I'd find poetry in prison wall profanity.

I love losing. Crying over love, over
Tragedies the size of full history book pages,
Timeless art lost in gallery fires, bad poetry
Gone viral and unpublished classics discarded.

I, Poet, laugh out loud in disbelief at sunsets
And other banalities.
Take spring rain showers and act at times
Like a hipster on ether; a hippie kissing his  

Last tab of acid with the heart of his tongue.
I care less than the unfree.
Drink water; wash my feet with wine    
And walk miles and miles of fire.

I, Poet.
Ink in my veins, fountains of blood on my
Pages. I write no diary, keep myself between
The lines.

The areas of white between the words.
The opposite of
Nothing. It is where gods,
Truths, and the poet's way of loving

A dual life lie. As
Unseen as
Unhidden, in
Broad daynight.

November shakes the wet from
Her wings and stretches them to
Their full reach; tips touching
The death and birth of October
And December,
Feathers the colour of leafless
Trees and ploughed fields.

A thirty day lifespan of deathbed
Lullabies and hardened faces,
Bodies crouching to lay themselves
Upon their own warmth in
Desperation, clouds of breath
Escaping layers of
Cotton and wool.

Winter is as inevetable as dying.
I wander between birches and
Pinetrees like crooked teeth
Protruding from the mist; the
Bones of something decomposed
Between moss and
***** forest water.

Black as old blood.
Brown as mud, air like millions
Of tiny arrows against any bare
Skin.
This landscape could be someone's
Nightmare, some horror movie
Set or a Ted Hughes poem backdrop.

But I stand, still and alone, one
Palm against a rotten tree trunk,
The other upon my Norwegian
Heart. It is a time for looking within
For strength. To be silent and not think,
But feel; a time for building fires.
To gather what's dry, and prepare.

A thousand hands on my skin.
Hours of lips against my
Chest.

Openness, the smell of woman
On every single breath of
Air.

Contained. Possessed.
Consumed. Engulfed. Confined.
Content.

I float in love craving me.
My every cell in bliss.
Water;

I am a leaf in a stream.
Floating in the featherness of
Relentless attention;

Too exhausted to sleep, yet
Giving in to dreaming
On.

A laughing prisoner.
More bars, locks, chains!
Caged in, and so, so free.

Move on, move on, spin the wheel
Don't dwell on times now gone
Survive, thrive that's the deal

Embrace the change, do not resist
Ride the tide
But know that memories persist

Like the ivy on the wall
That some may notice not at all
Nostalgia will creep up I bet

But it's not been long enough,
not yet

She counts her shells

her feet sand ribbed
her toes ricely white
her hair windy vagabond
her eyes low tide sea.

She gives me back my years.

Through tears
I count eternity.

Dear October,
Bathing me in a full moon
Supersized and the colour of
McDonald's cheese.

Bright through the thick curtains
Of my bedroom, where I rest in
Sober solitude.
A dim red, even through heavy

Eyelids.
Dear October, breathe your faintly
Frosted scents through my open
Window, leave my stellar

Night light on.
I need no fingertips caressing my
Face goodnight.
I have friends like little planets.

Graceful quiescent
bronze ballerina
frozen liquid pirouette
rooted from toe-tip
flowing calf to thigh stem
stretch sublime.
Off-shoot extends
then bends
at knee
runs the shin to
soft ankle twist.
Toe to knee again.
Budding groin
torso flowering divine
unfolding to
delicate swan neck leaning
face in ecstasy
tilting up.
Petal arms reaching
slightly bowing
to tulip cup.
Finger tips
elegantly caress
the sky.

My heart feels old today
it rattles like a stone in a can.
My eyes feel cold today
as they strain for gems in a prospector's pan.
My feet feel heavy today
trudging the ruts I've created time and again.
My thoughts feel tired today
they eloped with all hope and ran.

It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane

If you think of me in the spring,
think of dogwood petals
in my hair, greener grass
and new beginnings.

If the summer solstice
finds you walking alone
in the garden of the moon,
remember that I'm somewhere
walking alone, too.

If you sing of me,
sing in the fall
in blue flannel and jeans
like the saddest song of all.

And if I pretend to die,
and you pretend to weep,
I promise to do it in the winter
when there are no flowers
to send in your pretended grief.

I dread the sound of its passing
and the call of its merry chime
on the hour every day
the price that I pay
for life is a fear of time...