More frightened still to ask

I am writing this in Kos

With you it would have been…

For me now it is time with Andrew

And a little time with me

I don’t know what you’re feeling

I’m scared now to ask

I’m frightened to see a closure

More frightened still to ask

Far away warm feelings are easy

Blanking out bad times

Is not too too difficult a task

It’s not dealing with reality

It’s living in the past

But I do want to say

Some things for clarity

Things past you that I’d like to pass

My poetry and my reading

Gratitude to you for that and more

The list of introductions is endless

You’ve learnt me all and evermore

The paintings and the painting

The galleries and the exhibitions

You bought me pastels, paints and board

You showed me shade and depth without derision

You may think I already knew sculpture

True I had visited Leeds, to see serene old Mr Moore

But you opened up the vista

Showing you, opened up, opened up my view

Then there’s education

I guess that’s where we met

You sometimes unkindly scoffed at my methods

By example you led, standards to aspire to you set

On this last night, I’m writing this in Kos

The flights delayed, we’re losing waste less days

Now I know, or think I do, what it was like for you

In your horror of Fuerteventura

I didn’t know then what you were feeling

I had forgotten, become so rotten

I had forgotten

Forgotten how to ask

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It always turns into a poem

It always turns into a poem, it must mean, mustn’t it, that there is something else within, anyway, for now, I’m trying to write about something strange, something far from known before, or not even half understood, some strange feeling.

It’s not anger, and it’s not loss; there is a deal of not living up to reality, there is a deal of keeping your image alive, but it is not yet, at least I hope, not yet an infatuation.

And that’s the thing that scares me, in this what is almost calm serenity; do I risk rolling over to an hungry infatuation, do I risk that, by keeping your image alive.

By using you for my poetry, for writing down and remembering, I’m seeing you each evening, and taking you to my dreams, do I risk an hungry infatuation, that will eat me, eat me half alive.

Or is this path truly more cathartic, is it a passage towards a closure, will this calm feeling of now grow into something stronger, bringing me, giving me, without you forever, leaving me, giving me new hope.

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It’s a tightrope life I’m living

It’s a funny path to tread

Trod with boots of lead

We never really said

Goodbye

Now we are just not talking

Lifting the telephone but choking

Dark nights alone chain smoking

Goodbye

Fearful for and of the future

Careless with the lucre

Time turns sour not sucre

Goodbye

My words through my mind are sieving

This tightrope line, it’s a tightrope life I’m living

Hope is here, oddly so so often it is forgiving

Goodbye

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It’s coring though not screaming

I core away my evening

I core away, to try to find a feeling

Revealing evening’s feelings

Coring through the old grey ceiling

Sealing the old but not forgotten feelings

Although without today, they have no meaning

Just before the time for dreaming

I am coring, stealing, and reeling

It’s coring though not screaming

It’s welcoming not scheming

It’s opening and it’s leaving

Leaving you, to encompass you, in my dreaming

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Our dreams to longer ponder

For those of us, who are boys no longer

Those boys and girls, who are only left to dream

Boy, she sure brings those dreams much more closer

Close and mean she brings along the longer dream

For days and daze in summer sun she wanders

Days to see, to dream our old forgotten dreams

A skin of silk, a bosom without blemish

Thongs embrace, place for dreams to longer ponder

Oh yellow frock, your smock don’t shock or mock me

My feelings peel, I steal away to in my dreams reveal

A cappuccino, a writer’s hand upon my shoulder

Boy, I’m growing older, pray fold away my dreams

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