There I was,
smiling with out you,
breathing regular,
a good size,
in my eyes.
I was effortlessly exuding
my freedom,
with my two close friends,
Will and Power.

Not even the next hour,
there you were,
poisoning my flow,
with words,
I didn't think you would even know.

What a good hook,
that must have been,
because if you look,
I am back in your nook.
Back in the  position.
Back in your lap,
turning back the pages,
to this dramatic book.

If only I didn't have these memories.

The Street Cleaner
He is not a lucky man, but he is happy but one day he won on a lottery ticket,
not a not a big sum of money but enough to by wheelbarrow got permission
from the local council to keep the town's streets clean.  Happy, telling himself
he was self- employed and could sleep till nine in the morn  if he wanted to.
A busy bee a busy bee he was till he collided with Mercedes was taken to court
and his wheelbarrow was confiscated to pay for the damage. He had a bike and
got a local garage to put a two- wheel contraption to fasten to his bike, the town
got rid of its trash again until an officious policeman asked him if he had a licence
for this he didn't and it was confiscated. Now he had a jute sack slung on his proud
shoulders and a walking stick with a nail attached, a weapon a police officer said
  he was carrying a weapon in public and he was prosecuted.  He didn't show up
to the hearing and when the law came around, he hung from a rafter sometimes
even serious optimists give up and with no cleaner the town sank into misery,
plagued by vermin the population fled, a town given into paper napkins pizza boxes
and burger wrappers and the poor who had nowhere to go. And if this reflects
the life of a typical inner city of our English speaking world it is purely incidental.

You cried, when I read you poetry,
Soft sounds of weeping down the telephone,
It was not sad though, no, never that,
A kind of, unexpected happiness had blossomed,
Filling your mind with fragrant words, this is why,
You cried, when I read you poetry.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

I like the games we play.
And when we fight,
I love the conversation delays.
Not only for the make up ***
towards the end,
But so I can tell you I love you
again.
And all that im trying to do
is keep this thing fresh.
By charming you,
and seducing you.
Im glad I found you,
or maybe you'll tell it
like you found me.
But whatever.
I love this life.

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

Hungered for a taste
  of your elixir's essence,
drunken inhalations
   of your poetry
a splendiferous whirl
 of time & space 'tween
darkly scented moons
    and sun's adoration,
blithe starry nights
amidst meditative new
dawn's effervesce,
 spirited of the heart,
gleaned in the soul,
yearnings of another
  chapter's paradise
universal experiences
etched of hourglass sand,
 written upon endlessly
    chimerical verses
wildflower gardens drenched
    of dandelion's plum wine
swooning under a
hypnotic scripted spell,
intoxicating power
of unchained symphonies
dancing amongst skies'
released euphoria
 resonating in a song's
   reprised melodies,
breathlessness of delirium's
  celestial pauses
  in vaporous breezes'
  unfurling undulation,
captivated by rhythmic
  destiny reverberating in
     *****' pleasurable calling
  quenched of sacred
     offering's quell
transcending earthly
   persuasions' rhyme,
let me lick the nectar from
   your  poesy's  insatiable  lips,
sweet mercy's healing
   captured in rapturous
   surrender's reawakening ~

Je veux que vous tous,

tu me manques*



Ce que vous manquez de moi?

The sea took a sailor to its depths.--
His mother, unsuspecting, goes and lights

a tall candle before the ****** Mary
for his speedy return and for fine weather --

and always she turns her ear to the wind.
But while she prays and implores,

the icon listens, solemn and sad,
knowing that the son she expects will no longer return.