Mechanically he put out his best press
Straightened his yellowing pages
In spite of little pieces flaking off
Like dandruff

Ow !
His spine was not as strong
As in younger presses

He bathed and used aftershave
But still he had that musty air about him

He lay claim to nervous fame
As he fidgeted with the book markers
About to be given as gifts
For her , his blind date

She came in fresh in expectation
Her beauty made him full of dejection
Her cheerful voice proved
to be more than exhaultation

He fumbled for the first sentence
Of subjection , but
Managed only to say
"Please ! I'm just an open book to be read"

She eased over
And ran her fingers over his cover .
down his bindings ,
then inside his yellowing pages

She sighed ,
with pleasure ,
"Yes , this is my perfection "

alongside gestures of despair,

may communicate thought

bettter. or worse?

so lets  be singular

enjoy our own space,

and be friends, forever.

she says that you

cannot see some people’s souls,

perhaps we need to look harder.

there is a lot going on.

sbm.

never are we
when the sounds of words keep
our hearts \beating\
of the hard\ way\
one howls\
or still sings to the yellow moon\
as long as oxygen\
as long as carbohydrates drown\
as long as cactus survives\
or in the desert the sun rises\
whenever\
a heart beats\
we will be there\
or an eye looks\
where it should not\
in the dark\
in the soft pink shoulder biting\
are us\
in the silk sheets\ trying is all\
it will  take\
for us\
to resuscitate revive be there\
in words we will all be there\
forever/

the very beginning
    of the Big Bang,
did someone wise realize,
          he created, eventually,
achingly soft feminine
            firm voluptuous,
pendants miraculous,

          ultimate fun.
beauty  formed in a burst of
           magnificence.

Seriously, genius,
        the naked female born in an
explosion billions of years ago.

Unending wise, or
        coincidence, not ever,
I cup them, in reverence.

the world does
into color, green
vegetables,
brown bark
golden fields,
red sunsets,
white snow,
black nights,
brown dirt covering
me.
There are,
through colors many
realities.
small birds,
fiercest Tigers,
is my mind a reflection?

you never know if a person is loyal
until you, or that person dies
loyalty means loyal until death
although many of us wear that disguise
we say we are friends until the end
while we look into the eyes
meanwhile, under our breath
we are hoping for the other's demise

the odds of
gathering together all
the stardust
making fools
and kittens
inside the beginnings,
is making me consider,
I am little universes,
with pieces of eternity.
I am eternal.
I love the quest
I live then in
the answer, and the questions.

first it has to be said that

the swallows are back here,

down over the dunes.

cutting through sand,

walking through time,

deep  paths

show layers

of blood.

he talked of lizards, he talked of wood,

the size and fear of endearment.

he was many men,

he is one.

the tin hut stands empty,

revisited often.

the swallows are back.

©sbm

Even at my age,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Languishing among towering clouds,
A lofty empire, lost kingdoms,
Perhaps a strange magical realm,
Thriving with dwarves and giants,
Maidens in towers awaiting rescue,
Where lone horse warriors wander,
Maybe observing us, far below.

Must be a poetic creative thing,
Or simply the child deep within,
Viewing through the eyes of the man,
Dreaming ancient days of long ago,
When the child yearned to be grown,
To know all there is to know,
Never appreciating escapism,
The chance to drift within time,
Ponder upon distant, aerial, worlds.

Or maybe I’m just a dreamer,
That and nothing more, hmm,
Telling myself, I am a poet,
A procrastinating creative spirit,
In love with the trappings of art,
The child asleep within wisdom,
Languishing among towering clouds,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Even at my age.

©Paul M Chafer 2015