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)

Pictures of Perfection

Child,

Believe

You can do

Anything.

Do not look at what is around you,

Think of what could be.

What you dream of is

Tomorrow's world.

No one can see it but you. 

Thank your imagination for

Pictures 

Of 

Perfection.

Others will try to hold you back

Because they lack

Courage.

Until you die

Nothing can stop you changing the world

Except your own fear.

Never mistake 

The voice of fear

For

The voice of reason.

YOU

Are the most exceptional person who has ever lived.

Only by doubting

THAT

Will you ever fail.

Take what you are and make

The future

BEAUTIFUL.

(London, January 2007)

The Comfort of Silence

Did I say that out loud?

It's not the first time

I felt

Like crawling away

Or turning back time,

Wishing I could

Extinguish

That desire

To tell a random stranger

What I believe.

I feel him shrink and recoil

From this girl

Who has said something

That makes him feel 

Uncomfortable,

Because he felt safe

In the knowledge

That his darkest desires

Were invisible. 

He wonders,

"How can she see

The unknowable me

When I cannot put into words

My formative years

That torture me?"

She feels his pain,

And then,

Falls 

Silent.

For once.

(London. January 2007)