you can't stop it

love gathers dust

its downhill from the end of lust

so hot she squeaked

her touch a scorch

nothing doused my flaming torch

wet mouth a snare

long limbs a web

we knew this inferno could not ebb

ugly but chic

lithe and svelte

a body that would never melt

we sit here now

old and forlorn

wishing we had never been born

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The book lies closed now

Gathering dust on a shelf

I look, but do not touch

That reminder of yourself

Better to imagine our life

Dream of better times

Envisage your lovely face

Hum your happy rhymes

Shady bluebells in spring

Red leaves in November

Bonfires and sparklers

The chapters I remember

More novella than novel

Not near enough pages

A ...

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Tufts of dust 

Caper about my mosaic glass.

Blotches of ferric rust 

Offer me an unceremonious welcome at last.

Things I'd once befriended

Seem distant and cold.

Deaf ears to the chime of my footsteps

Tell me they've forgotten their companion of old.

I wonder when those mellifluous repartees

Turned into hollow echoes,

And the blithe breeze 

Into a stiflin...

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I am sorry 
to see you go,
but know you 
will fare well.

You survived hell
and have a great 
story to tell.

I know our paths 
were meant to cross
and count your departure 
as a big loss.

Even though you may 
drift far away, 
your essence remains.

Our lives are 
forever changed
from your soul flames 
and star dust.  
 

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Sometimes, inspiration and imagination have strange effects.

De Jeune

Swallows dive, swoon

like wind-swayed ink drops

down, and beyond the light:

swallowed by the sky,

flown blue, over

road-birds – honed

by simple flight.

Like arrows in Canada

in thunderhead afternoons:

clouds rolling, rutting hinds

in migration, pounding sand-trails,

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Those disembodied remnants,
Earthly remains of unknown souls,
are now assembled at my doorstep.
Having piqued my attention,
who are these unwelcome houseguests?
Loved ones or Nordic heroes
who were consumed in funeral pyres?
How old are these molecules
that have been forever scattered
during these past centuries?
Unwanted leftovers of human containers,
eaten by microscopic mites,
nibbl...

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dust

dust settles

dead skin

I trace my finger

through you

wishing you

were here

not gone

in a cloud

of dust

not spread

across my

furniture

like winterfall

and so

I don’t clean

I sit and stare

at the places

you have been

the places

where you

touched me

kissed me

before the rage

and arguments

...

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