As strong
and
bright
as
best light.
The kind of shine
that does
not dig
or seek
removal of dark,
it excavates
with spinning
flourish
of
radiate;
never too much
in your escalate.

Caught in a thought
of you;
carnivals pass without
a clap
and no welcome for
dancing dragons,
a blind spot
to fireworks;
my sky is full of you.
A marathon goes by unacknowledged,
as my eyes
are on a sky
full of you.

Some seams
seem
far
from
undone;
they no see tie
in the full of run,
but
can
stop
in
topple
when the future
is fit to burst.

Anything
may
seem
a half life
after
such
rush,
so when the rescind is real
it is totally apparent,
nothing more
than a fade
of the full,
just because
the clear of the clarity that was;
the end of our tour,
our tour to source,
the simple end  
of a tour de force.

If I had the choice
would I run with excitement
when I see your name
pop up
or would I decide to be unmoved
by a jolt of you
and sit,
statically,
while another
somewhere else
involuntary leaps,
at an arrangement of letters.

If
our hands touched daily
would I think of you lots?
When you went to
the shop
would I think of you lots?
Would I make up
a voyage of synchronicity
where the only thing between us
is invisible sustaining air;
if you were close
would flights of fancy cease;
no more puzzle,
the final piece.

You halt stooping low,
put the stops on it;
foe by foe,
blow by blow,
diminished,
and
flurry
in finish.
All doubts called out;
you watch them wither
in calm mood
and tense,
speaking softly
to sense,
brightening dull
that forgot the joy
of
projection

You marked fleet
with the casting
of summer,
wild tracks
that ran on their own;
adding drops
to
patter in now,
as giving rush
the cool wait of clarity.

I want you like hulla wants baloo,
like scared craves boo,
like the sky covets blue.
Like a pain thrives on ache,
like hail asks for compacted snowflakes,
like a creator seeks makes,
as a puddle dreams of lakes,
as a kleptomaniac reaches for takes,
as chilly buns call the bake;
I want you as wit wants woo,
you you
you,
tu whit tu whoo.

When the last dream of you
I told you as soon as I could,
straight on wake;
the
tales
of
sleep
communicate.
Now
lay as a
closeness
rescinds,
oh,
the things we nearly did
with wings.

Things start in different ways,
sometimes soft and faint
hardly rippling
still
but
gentle
with glorious intent.
Or, instantly sudden,
sodden in anew,
caught in the unstoppable
thrall
of quickening season,
fast and swift,
with love the reason

There is no dressing this up,
or hiding behind
protective walls of feigned indifference;
our ending is sad.
It is not a transformative stop
where hatches are battened down
with the promise of spring burst,
our leaves will stay away,
for good;
the midst of us going
is final
as
bills
for flowers
on hearse.
Not that we thought our days would last
indefinitely,
we didn't think at all
of the days of not knowing what to do,
without me
and you.

Whatever happens
getting over you won't be a problem,
and that's not pre empting
bitter exclaim,
saying you meant nothing,
no,
you did,
you're wonderful.
Nor does it mean
I was immune to your charms
or the pangs or clangs
calling love to arms.
And not that I won't
be sad
for the stop
at promise
and what we may have missed,
just,
just because.
No,
it won't be a problem to get
over
because it means
there was joy to get over,
a joy that made days full
of time;
where all that was
was
at once.

Want
on was leaves,
small steps while futile implores
on the floor.
But it all happens itself.
No hurry or rush
or do
or do not,
as easy as green calling to show  
with no making low
in the months near snow;
the start and
full
of long ago.

If there was mire
you'd lift me above,
if all was hate
you'd provide love,
if you were a soul mate
you'd give me a hug
and clean the air if I was choking on fug,
and chew for me to get rid of cud,
and find me dry land in days of flood,
plasma me up when short on blood;
you'd walk me if my legs were spent
you'd give it meaning if I don't know what it meant,
you special shimmer,
you're heaven sent.

Your clarion call
ties silence
in knots,
filling far flung fields full
of forget me nots.

Just when it seemed like you were done
lost to the turn
you appear
with the most full of ends,
not frail or wanting,
strong as you ever were
at your height;
the most bright
of goodbyes.

Much you make,
out of nothing,
just the thought of you is
exciting;
you breathing in Autumn,
your pace, your stay,
your wait.
Strident steps
full of all tense at once,
forging anew.

What a good pet,
a bite waiting behind the curtain,
a flash with her talons
drawing blood,
you might not see it
but this is love.
Always wide eyed
from the moment we met,
a chaotic bundle
my lovely pet.
Delightfully vicious,
fanged with sublime,
tabs of mayhem
every time
& as near as I'd want
to totally mine;
on the stage of herself,
her little wild self.

A letter
warning of a imminent  
house inspection
makes me sad.
Not because
there is much to do,
just a slight sprucing
up of nooks
and a polish of taps.
It’s because the last time I sought to make everything gleam
you were coming to visit
and the wish for pristine
wasn’t to pass a test;
every second of dusting brought you closer,
scrubbing ticking down to you;
the mundane becoming magnificent.
There was sparkle everywhere
when you arrived.

If asked I’d say
“yes, that is a sweet place to visit,
you should defiantly go there,
it’s the best.”
Knowing that yes
might be a lie.
The place I vouch for
could have had
******* heaps
disturbing sleep
by day and night
and not known
singing
or joy
or light.
It may have never heard
a voice kind go out of it’s way
and back again just because
it can,
there may have been a laughter ban
or a tax on air,
I would not have seen these rules
or cared
because that's the place I met you,
and the world at once
was just
us two;
that’s good for life,
not travel advice.

With you
silly fog
is easy to move through,
you clear what's missed;
my call to arms,
you call my arms
and put me together,
in any storm
in any weather.

A once
same eyes sky
seen through by distance;
a full leaving,
scene by scene,
green by green,
a summer sparkle
losing gleam.

A transient stay rescinds
fall by fall,
as it always would;
dropped what once caught
the full of the sun.

You move through air
with
the
surety of spectacular,
neither hidden or waiting
just there and full
of nothing but what is,
bursting from
this and no more,
only this and what is
and no seek to soar.

In the real world
you don't walk unexpectedly
around a corner
and say hi
and make smiles rise,
instead boring practicality
keeps us apart,
yawning gaps
on the map.
But miles don't stop smiles
rising
in a place
in a space
between us.

Still
in splendid sun
dotted wings untouched
by frost to come;
bright
they flicker in light
and move no further
than the colour of today.

You, not to forget;
as
verdant sinks and slips
a soft green sustains
through thick and thin
and falling rain.

The end of the start of something
erupts,
off the cuff;
no whims,
just ordered fall,
to the floor.

No imagined conversations
where laughter pools
light and loose,
the only grip on each other.
Not to think of meetings,
when we greet effortlessly
and move into our occupation
with ease and smiles.
To not walk through thoughts
where us is the center of ourselves
and all else shelved for hours,
not to grasp another singing day;
what will
will
without will.
Now you,
now you.

Only places between us.
Narrow burrows,
furrowed rows,
and thick tracks,
and motorways.
They look small from above.
Slight interconnections
gathering for stride;
your eyes,
oh,
your eyes.

Some people say they don't like social networking
on mobile phones,
"it distances us from human connection"
they bleat and moan,
"takes us away from natural converging,
curtails face to face ties from emerging,
subdues us in a swamp of technology,
this engagement with messaging is surely a folly."
And as they depart they say,
“give me a person over a mobile msg anyday.”
Now don't get me wrong eye to eye communing is amazing
and it's not the last reserve of a luddite to prefer tactile phrasing
or to think sweet nothings into a there ear is best
but that doesn't mean there is nothing in mobile caress.
Because you can meet someone at a festival, and feel a sweet spark
that thunders through the roaming larks
and then when you part after a few days
think, "oh, that was awesome, I enjoyed their ways,
they made me laugh and gave me jumping smiles,
****, it's a pity between us there are miles and miles."
But when you arrive home and charged up a message pings
"you back now?" I see it and start to feel sing.
So we take our phones and chat all the next day,
getting to know each other in a happy appy way,
giggling at your words, beaming at the next
growing through lightning at each little text,
learning more in these screen chats;
you go to lots of BBQs and love dogs and cats,
you dye your hair and are calamity stricken
your top fajitas are finger lickin,
you know Mandarin and are ace at Catchphrase
and you have an inclination for New York days,  
you can analytically discuss scenes from C Street,
you can charm the customers at a store meet and greet,
you can decipher the nuance in The Bistro goss,
you can put up with **** from ****** at Argos.
You have a mate who picks up Mark Ronson's pooch,
you've saved a big crustacean when been on a mooch,
you can relate a song to Odysseus using sheep to save his men
and watch Mr G the musical over and over again,
you stay up/get up to watch the Super Bowl,
you type faster than a thought on a roll,
you've danced with Pete Barlow's ship mate from Corrie,
you can drive a car and a van, I recks you could handle a lorry!
You have loads of friends and often verge on more dislocation,
I want to be near you, whatever the location.
I want to pull you out of a hat
and see you stand on my welcome mat,
see, mobiles are good because it's good to feel that.
But if some quantum physicists are to be believed, after perusing their hefty tomes,
somewhere in infinite there is a place with no mobile phones,
and a boom of synchronicity has to be carried on by pen on paper
and there are days and days tween a tumbling heebie jeebie butterfly caper,
and then it's sent with a hope that it won't be lost in the post,
and be not read, like a bottled message uncorked by the coast.
Maybe a letter and no phones is better for starting a fizz
but right now mobiles make this what it is;
if not for them would I feel this close to you?
Or be writing this to you?
Right now I like feeling close to you,
and I like writing this to you,
to you Lou.

Right now
I smile loads
as you pop
In my head
a lot;
beams from waking up
to drifting off.
I like smiling,
I like you popping in my head
a lot.

After three thousand brilliant minutes
we part,
but,
no sorrow when we do,
those minutes were with you.

I'm lucky that up until now
my heart has beat ever day
but the past few months
it's been warmer
and as mornings grow
a tad colder
they also seem warmer,
the time when the year turns
colder
is warm;
for no other reason than you.

Not to want to fly,
supposing wings
can bring defeat;
this, not unclipped,
a gentle bloom of plume,
lifting the see, to saw and see.

You make my tummy smile,
like cats do,
I see for miles, you’re a good map too ;
siege my horizon,
shifting the blue.

You're not as essential as oxygen
or sleep.
I could still walk without you.
But,
without you,
who'd put the spring in my step,
the jig in my day,
the sun in a ray
or
the see in my say.

Still,
this summer breeze;
no wait for me
or
weight on me;
you make me light
and untouched by form,
when we touched you were warm enough to startle the birds
from the trees,
on the summer breeze.

You make me smile,
and the far sun hotter,
add rhythm to my potter.
Your dance in slumber out numbers all other,
my present tense that opens spaces;
I feel the sunshine on my face,
I feel your sunshine on my face.

Don't like thinking of what may come,
it can take from the moment,
dilute future fun,
gazing on the moon,
while dreaming of sun,
forgets to walk, as craving run.
But sometimes I see us
laughing in arm, exploring the wild,
ignoring alarm, raising to smile,
touring our spin and erasing  riled,
face to face warm,
shaking seams to
wondrous form.
Side by side in summer storm.
Astral fireworks over head,
lay together in bed;
don't like thinking of what will come,
it dilutes future fun,
but
just
for this moment
I'll think on this one.

Subdue frantic hurry,
stop reaching for a morning in waiting,
no manic slurry,
just dew, in a morning
not waiting.

To be with you in your free house would be great,
I’d never dawdle to late,
I’d knock on the door ripe on time,
and, maybe, flowers flourish in rooms,
a start starts to bloom;
arms wide open as the ocean.

With your eyes on me I can see.
You put the ball in the hole,
& step from fall;
dear dancing in aeroplane summer.
Your tinder smile,
not touched Tinder for a while.

It wasn't a while anymore,
today I saw moored.
As ever a tribble of joy,
you are what what's for,
fore
ahoy!

I feel
I want to show you
my going home face,
my face would look like home
if, my home was your face;
or if your face feels home
on my face.

You flew in short May,
thriving in nest,
sore from birth
but soar earth with best.
With dreams fell wing;
but fly once, & sing.

Summer may be the death of you,
it's when you stretch sinew.
Do  joints wear in hot air,
when you chase every fly,
with all pounce,
with all ounce, of power;
in May may you reduce your hours.
But, not to suppose,
be breeze blows,
& free flows.

How does Poppet feel in this sun?
Does she know in a few she's one?
Furry insides;
purry kin rides.

I'm glad when humans were new they walked about
and didn't just sit and stew in their own juices,
they got up and toured the hue of places,
and saw unfamiliar faces;
"Hi, how are you, are you a person too?  Fancy setting up camp?  If you need a light I've got a lamp!"
So cities emerged and created verges
and separate surges,
blossoming splurges,
in concrete or tent,
which is great.
The only thing is that means our location
can kinda pre ordain our destination,
as in I can't say...
"I'm going now Mum, just having a walk to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon."
Or
"Cheers my friend for the afternoon talk, i'm now going to stroll to the sunset in New York."
If we are not there we need plans to get there,
bus, then a train, then, maybe, a plane.
Our want can't just be unravelled,
if it's distant we need to travel.
As much as I want to say, "hey Lou, what you doing today?
Feel like a dally in the park with thundering larks and then when the light goes dark come to my room and create our own spark?" i'm restricted, constricted by distance, our distant dance.
But
distance is not just measured in geographical far,
not every journey requires a car,
sweet synchronicity ignores miles and yawning gaps,
especially when there's high fiving in our synapse;
ahh, to spend Sunday drifting in and out of naps,
without eyes on the time,
intertwined in the sunshine.
Yeah, distant may seem a trial
but galaxy hopping is nothing
if it's really worth the while.