BBB Poem 92

How good do you look
Such that your boyfriend
(I guess he is your boyfriend)
Wants to stop
And take a photograph
Of your shadow
On the cathedral floor

He shows you the shot
And after a few words
You throw your arms around him
And kiss him fully on the lips
Yes, I am pretty sure
He is your boyfriend
At least now I hope so

Ok I know it is not spiritual
Although I do believe love played a part
And I know that is short on religion
Even with the audacious use of the c word

Now it is the thirty-somethings kissing
With their loving teenage children
Trying also to get in on the act
Meanwhile the Breton man
Fondles the stone

And the pushchair
Is pushed, and spun, and twirled
The tall man looks up
At the way taller ceiling
And explains to all who are in earshot
The purpose of the arches

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BBB Poem 91

Several months
Almost a year
Of debilitating pain
Which, however optimistic
One may be superficially
The doubt still remains
The question remains
Will I be cured
Will I be made better

Such that the sleep
Will itself be longer
Than the two hour snatches
Such that the sitting
And the stride about walking
Will be without recourse
To a massage of the shoulder
Or without the need
To nudge a little to the right

I notice the margin is sloping
Yet this is no love poem
No story of abject loss, or lust
For that matter neither a tome
To express the slain of heartbreak
Or the overdue longing of the unrequited
No, not so, however much
I might write of the frozen shoulder
You will always nag away at me

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BBB Poem 90

I wrote out a poem
From Lang Leav’s book
The Universe Of Us
It wasn’t for your birthday
Not as such, for I wrote it out
A few days ago, but then today
I saw another of Lang’s poems
On my Tumblr web site
And of course today
Today it could be your birthday

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BBB Poem 89

It is Nineteen-eighty-seven
I am thirty-five years old
I am stood
Looking out of the window
In the small back bedroom
Of our fairly new detached house

I have a devoted family
Two beautiful children
A good job
A brand new car
My studies are going well
But something isn’t right

The black mist has descended
I am frustrated
I want to extend the house
But don’t know why, or how
I want to do more with work
But aren’t sure what, or how

We have small back garden
Bordered by trees
Conifers and poplars
Which I had planted
One sodden wet
Easter weekend

There is a small, straight
Water-feature, by the patio
To be honest there isn’t room
For an extension
I write a poem
It could be the first I ever wrote

It is dark
It is despondent
It is without hope
It cries of my frustrations
It talks of loss
It talks of despair

It is Two-thousand-and-five
I am eighteen years older
I am leaving another house
With a small, straight
Water feature; a rill
As I now name it

It is Two-thousand-and-seventeen
I am looking back
I don’t know why, or how
Both water-features are filled in
Both houses have been sold
And sold at least once again

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BBB Poem 88

Did we desert each other
Without support structures in place
Did we carry away the voice
Which only knew obstruction, and angst

Did we flunk it as passionately
As first we had made it
Did we put distance, yet more distance
Between us, also behind us

How surly, and insensitive was I
How rigidly representative were you
With love unknown to the logic
Was our rationale simply too too true

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