Finally

Here is where the pain stops.

Here is where the joy begins.

Here is where the aching ends,

And the courage wins.

Breaking through the wall of fear,

Breathing air clear

Of negative particles.

Consuming only love,

As it bounces back and forth,

Radiating blinding light.

Finally

Living.

(Los Angeles, September 2009)

Four Hours

More for the sake

Of the child

Inside

Do I hesitate

To embrace

You

With the full force

Of what I feel.

I would

Lie, limp,

In your arms,

And allow

Your power

To engulf me

And penetrate me

Until I was full of you,

Were it not for

The bruised heart

Of the fairy-tale princess

Who sits on shattered dreams

That I still

Must tend.

If this could be

Heaven on earth,

If these are

Tears of joy

That clean my cheeks,

Then I am powerless

To prevent

A piece

Of my history

From taking shape.

If, once again,

I have mistaken

Hope for truth,

Lust for love,

Need for want,

Then history has

Only

Repeated itself,

And life is

Kicking me in the gut

With a lesson

I refuse to learn,

And I will slowly

Slip away

Before,

Or

After,

I take

Another hit.

The pure heart

Is incapable

Of exercising

Caution.

That's all I've really learnt.

(Los Angeles, September 2009)

The Day The Cricket Died

He was on his back

When I found him,

Kicking his legs in the air.

I put him right.

He jumped off the porch,

Out of the shade,

Into the midday sun,

And started to

Bake.

He limped along

For an inch or so,

Gave a flutter

Of his wings,

And flipped over

Again.

Losing the will to live, he

Twitched

Once,

Twice,

And then was still.

A minute passed

Before I thought I saw

A small movement.

But it was only

The wind

Nudging him,

Encouraging him,

As I had done,

To try again.

But he was gone.

His empty shell

Donated to the earth.

I knew him briefly,

That cricket.

He was on his back

When I found him,

Kicking his legs in the air.

(Silver Lake, September 2008)

Playing With Fate

See, that's the problem,

When you don't ask questions.

You make things up,

You start believing in.

You don't want to

Spoil

The magic of

The mystery?

Fine.

But don't falter

When the truth

Comes out.

Stay strong.

Value what it is.

Or what it was.

Respect

Your own

Responsibility

In the situation.

If you go in with your eyes closed,

Don't open them.

Unless you want to see

The puppet master,

Ugly and tired,

Pulling the strings

Of your life.

You want to play games

With fate?

Fine.

But don't complain

When fate wins.

He always does.

(Los Angeles, March 2009)

If He Knew

I can't help myself

I've done it again.

I've met a boy

Who melts me when

He touches my arm

Just above the elbow,

And kisses my lips with strength

And humor. And so

I am weak with desire

And strong with hope,

And all I can do

Is try to cope

With the time

Between the times

I spend with him.

Writing rhymes

And drinking wine

On my own,

Imagining he's mine.

If he knew

I was writing this

I'd die. I'd have to

Pretend to miss

His call.

(Not that he'd

Call, if he knew I was

Writing

This.)

(Los Angeles, March 2009)

Our Songs

No.

Sorry.

I can't listen

To "our songs"

Anymore.

Which is a pity.

Because some of them

Are very good.

I miss them.

I miss you.

I want to listen to them again.

I want to listen to you again.

But not the part where you're saying

You're

Leaving.

I don't like that part.

Just the part where you're saying

You're

Laughing

Too hard.

So hard

You think you might

Puke.

That was funny.

(Los Angeles, March 2009)

London

London

Got lost

Behind the scowl

Of the disgruntled

Bus driver

And the gasp

Of a tourist aghast

At the filth.

Grey gargoyles

Blend into

Grey skies,

And the green Starbucks sign

Is visible

In three directions

In Piccadilly Circus.

There's histroy

Hidden

On the crumbling banks

Of the Thames,

Invisible to the eyes

Avoiding

Other eyes

On the Northern Line.

The theatres would be emtpy

But for the stars of Reality TV

And American movies;

Box offices unmanned

But for the RADA trained actor

Making rent

And one meal

Per day.

Buskers audition

To beg

At a beer-sponsored

Spot,

And the homeless

Have a right

To every coin

In your pocket.

If you don't want to work,

The state

Will pay you

To sit at home

And smoke.

If you do want to work,

Schoolchildren

Will break in to your home

And steal what you earn.

And there will always,

Always,

Always

Be engineering works

On the day

You must travel

From

Paddington

When a man was tired of London,

Once he was

"tired of life".

Now if a man is tired of London,

You can't bloody blame him!

(London, February 2007)