Sarah’s Poem

img_0516Your love is like a rose.
With each touch,
your thorns make me

My love, a deep red.
As deep and as the red as the Blood at the Cross, bleeding (and dying) for your sins.

Your love is like a rose.
I give you my light, my sunshine.
You grow before my eyes,
as you wilt in my hands.

I am your reservoir.
You drink.
And drink.
And drink.
And drink, until I run dry.
And still thirsty, you drink more.

Your love is like a rose in winter.
Grey, cold…lifeless.

I am your gardener.
I see your beauty during the long, cold winter days and nights.
I value your nakedness, your vulnerability.
I am your protector.

Your love is like a rose.
You only know when to love when things are good.
That’s when you bloom, with your petals ruby-red,
as ruby-red as the Blood at the Cross.

Your love is like a rose.
Each day,
you dying

*This poem is not about a ‘Sarah.’  But the real Sarah, Sarah Haines, who challenged me to write this, my second poem, by giving me the opening line, “Your love is like a rose…” and told me to run with it.  And to her I am, as the cliché goes, I am eternally grateful.

You Won’t Let Me


I turn the page.

You turn it back,
your hands dirty with old ink.
You let go of your future, so you can hold onto the past.
I want to dance, but my legs won’t let me.


The smell of yesterday’s worries.
I worried too, not for me, but for you.
Worried with songs and laughter, not for you, but for me.
I want to sing, but my voice won’t let me.


I feed you a taste of your tomorrow.
This is your chartered trip to your undiscovered lands.
I watch you cry.
I want to speak, but my mouth won’t let me.

I am your pod.

Consume, replicate and then duplicate me.
You cling to my future, so you can hold onto your past.
I want to breathe, but my lungs won’t let me.

Empty words.

You feed me your empty words.
I take your words and fill them with meaning.
My meaning.
I want to hate you,
but my legs,
my voice,
my mouth,
my lungs,

and my heart

won’t let me



img_1973Standing on the edge of the dark and cold abyss, I heard you yell….


The Other Day I Wondered

40d16a01-3944-4ec4-8736-e7fcabf663ccThe other day I wondered, who you spent Valentine’s Day with?
Was it a him?
Was it a her?

I wondered the other day, was that look for me, or was that look at me?
Did I mis-judge your smile?
Your stare. That stare, was it in my mind?

The other day I wondered, if you knew, I once stared (and stared),
and stared, at the back of your neck, waiting to ask if you needed a seat.
I lie, I just wanted to know if you needed my seat. Instead, I sat.
And I sat. And I sat, eyes closed, listening, listening, listening.
I listened to your voice.
I watched. I watched as you found another, a seat that is.

My first of, what I now know, many chances, gone.

I wondered the other day what it would be like to lay next to you. No I lie, I wondered what it would be like to lay with you, entangled, enveloped; to look in your eyes; to kiss your lips, your neck; to touch your skin;


The other day I wondered,
do you even know,
I exist?

My Never Ending Poem

My ears may never fall upon you again.
And for that, I want to create something that is lasting, perennial.
For you, my words have no beginnings, and no endings.

They are timeless.

If I could, I would leave everything to you.
I gave you a song, I give you my words.
When I am gone, the words written about me, will be all about you, there will be no question.

Some days, I spell out your name, in my mind, over and over,
and over again, making each letter consonant with each vowel sound, open, never closed.
I close my eyes, hoping the letters you give me will never end.

A memory of me laying with you, locked in an embrace,
listening, like a voyeur, to your breath, each exhale becoming my inhale.
I mourn that you are not with me.

I see your picture.
I close my eyes, and frame your voice,
your deep, deep voice.
I close my eyes, never to open them again.
For you, my poem will never end.



The Girl Who Cried Wolf

She was alone.

img_1367That’s how she started each day, and ended each evening. An empty spot at the dinner table, the empty space in bed, those were her stark reminders. Mother, as she called her, had died some time ago. And, while she desperately tried to hold onto the memories – her childhood, her adulthood – they soon faded. The fading memories making her loneliness even greater. Nothing to cling to, but the present.

Mother had told her to live her life, to be her own woman, and never rely on a man to provide anything to and for her. ‘The only thing you need from a man,‘ Mother would say, ‘is his seed.’ ‘He plants the seed, but you feed it, you nourish it, you protect it.  You are the one who gives it life. In your belly.’

She did need him at one point. That’s why she called.

She first saw him on the train platform. Tall, with skin so dark, so dark chocolate brown, it shown a blue tint. His auburn eyes. Standing upright, standing so proud. She stared, he ignored. That moment gone.  Sometime later, she saw him again, on the same train platform. She stared. He smiled. He talked. She listened. She talked. He listened. Six months later, the seed was planted. Four months later, she left, having decicded that she wanted to tend to the garden on her own. Mother was happy she, her only daughter, had wisely heeded her advice.

Mother could not prepare her for what would happen next.

She was preparing for life, not death. You don’t nourish, tend and protect with the intention that your garden will die. Her grief, beyond her explanation, beyond her expression. Silence. Mother too – swallowing her grief (and disappointment) – stayed quiet. What advice can one give on death, yet on the death of a baby? It would take a year before their silence was fully broken.

Mother was gone three years later. Loneliness descended into her life. ‘Mr Wolf,’ she cried out.

She saw him again on a train platform. Still tall, still so dark, with skin so chocolate, so dark brown, it had a blue tint. His auburn eyes. He stood upright. He stood so proud. She stared. He saw, he ignored. He stood proud. She stared. He looked. She smiled. He stood proud. She talked. He listened. She talked more. He listened. Months later, the seed was planted.

She thought the time had passed for new life to grow in her belly. Yet, something did. It started as a low, low hum. A warmth. A glow. When he held her in his arms, when he kissed her, when they made love, when he talked, when he listened, when he argued. When he touched her. When she longed for him to touch. She felt a new life growing inside her.

She was reborn

She had called for him. ‘Mr Wolf,’ she cried out, but she never thought he would come.