Do I like sorrow?

As I awake wrapped in this blue

melancholy –

swaddled, serried, warm -

do I actually enjoy it?

Aren’t I safe here semi-

conscious like an hibernating

tortoise within my

shell?

Is this not some

shield to prevent me

running into life

like some mad

March hare with

utter abandonment -

recklessness -

hysterical at just

the thought of

love.

My very own

Adagio playing

it’s forlorn tune

as I funeral march

into another day.

The rain taps out my sad -

beat -

against some misty

window pane.

Do I just like

sorrow?

Do I love it?

AND THEY WERE BOTH RIGHT

A Great guest poet,

Kapka Kassabova

There is so much violence yet to be done.
He falls into her body
blind because desire makes him blind
deaf and limbless for the same reason.

But what is love?
And is this a question or a statement?

He will be
undone by it, she shudders in jubilation,
and pulls him to her night -- like a dress
to be undone.

Love will be made and unmade, naturally,
unnaturally. It will be invoked
like a reason, like a form of life.
It will be forgotten.

What if love is no more than
a tangle of muscles
aching to be untied
by knowing fingers?

What if love is made and nothing else?
asked Narcissus, leaning over the green iris of water.

Nothing else,
cried Echo from the green cochlea of the woods.

And they were both right.
And they were both lonely.

(Kapka Kassabova)

Red dress

Yes, She’ll wear those

Black Joggers

That Black

T-Shirt

“WHAT-EVER”

But you’ll never

Understand her

Never get near her

She knows where she going,

Knows where she’s

Been.

Yes, she’ll wear that

Red Dress

And

“WEAR-IT-WELL”

she’ll strut her stuff

She’s got it!

With those lips

And oh, that hair

But you’ll never

See what’s within,

See her very Soul

Wrap her up in Sack Cloth

Dress her in a Bin liner

Wrap her up in

F***ING

Cling Film

You’ll NEVER know her…

But I will

Bless You!

“Bless You!”

She

Said,

And

Was on her

Way

I’d

Sneezed

And by the time

My

Eyes were

Open

She’d nearly

Gone

Jet black

Hair

Cut

In That

‘Bob’

Style

Bouncing

A

Tartan

Scarf

Flowing in

Her

Wake

Tight Blue

Denims

Showing

Her

Off

Her

Behind

I never even

Saw her

Face

But

Somehow

Knew

She was

Smiling

“And

Bless You

Girlie”

I

Shouted

To her

Back

“Bless You!”

Even in her sleep

I’m back home

Smelling

Of work

She’s asleep on

The

Couch

Hands beneath her

Head

That

Slight pinkness in

Her

Cheeks

And even in her

Sleep

She sings to

Me

I gently place the

‘Cardie’

Across her

Shoulder

Marveling in this

Strange

Paradox

Feminine vulnerability

And

Strength

And even in her

Sleep

She sings to

me

Remember the rain.

Everyone started to run out of the Rain

Except me.

I slowly walked to the bench in the park

And removed my jacket.

(I had a blue cotton shirt on.)

I folded my jacket over the back of the bench

And sat down.

People walking dogs looked oddly

At me – dogs looked oddly

At me.

My shirt went a darker colour, not

Just under the armpits.

It wasn’t particularly windy yet the

Diagonal rain kinda lashed into

Me, water droplets dripped

Indifferently off my nose I

Noted.

I removed my tie, for some reason

And placed it into my

Jacket pocket, standing up to go

Around to where the

Pocket was – rain making me

Blink.

An old lady without a face

Came and sat down beside me.

Smiling. She said....

“Remember Roger when you and

Lesley used to play count the

Raindrop going down that

Lonely window pain?”

Remember the Rain?

Edna.

And she sits

There

Framed by her

Window.

A picture for

Today,

A Picture for

Tomorrow.

She knows

Every shape,

Every mark

In her

Room.

There are no

Guards

No guns

No locks.

Her walls

Her

Confinement

Her head.

Somewhere

Else

A wave Crashes

Onto a Beach

A Nightingale sings -

Somewhere

Else.