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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BBB Poem 87

Words which enter of their own volition
They are the best words
Just as the glimpse
From the corner of one's eye
Says all that needs to be said about her beauty
Just as the gathering in
Of the one unique scent note
Says all that you need to know about her style

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BBB Poem 86

I have been unable
To cure myself
Of this long held obsession

I have tried, believe me
Yet every time I throw
Another stone into the water

I smile to myself, politely
I watch the ripples
Dappled and stippled with light

In the deep of night
Her memory is falling
From the moon and stars

As I lay in my bed
I spin the words to thread
The lost love which is calling

Without pad or pen or pencil
I repeat the words
Hoping that my sleep

Will not take them away
But of course it does
So frail is my obsessed mind

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