Waiting For His Call

woman wearing blue denim jacket putting her right arm on her cheek
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Waiting For His Call

As she wakes to the wrench of the radio’s blare,
She’s not there.
As she tries to decide on the blouse she should wear,
She’s not there.
As she dawdles her breakfast of yoghurt and pear,
As she spends all her morning with coffee and stare,
As she foregoes her lunch for pilates with Claire,
She’s not there.
And all her afternoon that passes in her chair,
And on the bus and on the train while fishing for her fare,
And waiting at the checkout as she vaguely winds her hair,
She is always and never quite there.



Frost Song

blur bokeh close up cold
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Frost Song

On the second morning afterly
The Feast of Middle-Winter,
I walked-out with my true-love
Through the brittle lambent-glinter;
I walked-out with my true-love
Till our cheeks were flush with pinking,
And I asked my wind-teased beauty
To me whisper of her thinking:
The said she thought of Crystal Jack,
A diligent delinquent,
Who caught the sun and shone it back
As glistered-golden clinquant.
I walked-out with my true-love
’Cross the sparkled, gelid loam,
And so we warmed each other’s breaths
Until the starlings bid us home.



Villain Elle

shallow focus photography of person s face side view
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Villain Elle

Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend,
Hanging around with her trouble-brewing sort,
They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.

Not an easy woman to defend –
Probably at what she really shouldn’t ought.
Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend.

Build your hopes up – and watch them all descend.
Hanging around her will only get you caught.
They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.

Seeking action ?  How much can you spend ?
Probably life for the trouble you just bought.
Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend.

Sex and menace – hazardous to blend:
Hanging around, and you quaff her by the quart.
They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.

So they tell me – none would recommend.
Probably wise, but I’ll take my chance to sport
With bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend;
I can’t wait to see how she turns out in the end.




turned on white and black torchiere lamp
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I love the way your halves combine.
I love the way you place each lung
With careless grace and good design
On either side your centre line,
And equidistant from your spine.
I love the way your ribs are strung.

I love the way your shoulders fit,
I love the way your arms construe.
I love the way your kidneys sit,
So each, the other mirrors it
To keep the couple quite legit.
I love the way your hips are two.

I love the way you wear your legs,
So nicely paired, and just enough:
For with a third, the question begs
Of where upon your frame it pegs.
I love the way you keep to regs.
I love the way you’re up to snuff.

I love your face with eye and eye,
I love the way they both are blue.
I love the way they flit and fly
In unison, to watch me pry
Upon thy tygrish symmet-try.
I love the way you’re balanced-through.


The penultimate line is inspired by how I always read the fourth line of a certain poem of William Blake’s.




broken heart love sad
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I offered to take her to Pisa –
I knew she’s never been.
I offered the beauties of Giza,
And everywhere between.
I offered her Sinan and Plato and Gluck,
I offered her Ozu and Donne
I offered her Titian and Tolstoy and Hooke,
And ev’rything, ev’rything under the sun.
The whole of the planet was waiting before us,
And all of its wonders were ours.
But no, she left with the stranger from Taurus –
I could not compete with the stars.



Soul Lights

detail from Experiment with an Air Pump by Joseph Wright



Perhaps she is just a chimera,
Or otherwise born with this curious guise;
For everytime that I’m near her,
I cannot but help to look into her eyes.
Perhaps she has suffered a trauma,
Where blood is now staining her iris tattoo
That partially came to transform her,
With one eye of hazel, the other of blue.
And further, her hazel is golden
Encircling her iris, but greener beyond.
Her stare surely has me beholden,
Her pupil eclipsing its het’rochrome pond.
No contacts nor tumours nor ’Shop-tricks
Are needed to give them what rarely occurs.
If souls can be glimpsed in our optics,
Then softly she carries a rainbow in hers.




Woman Writing a Letter
detail from Woman Writing a Letter by Gerard ter Borch


Her lovers’ ink, the sneerful think,
Is sentimental brine –
But no, I say, for each cliché
Is lyricment divine !
The very fact her tritesome pact
Is heaped upon my shrine
Is surely worth all laboured birth –
Her rapturelust is mine !
Her spotted graft becomes a draught
Of witticismic wine;
Her passion grows in purple prose,
To bloom incarnadine.