Come to Me

August 23, 2013

I close my eyes a thousand times a day,
Because in the dark, I always see your face.
You get me through all my darkest hours,
In the dead dry desert, you’re a bed of flowers</p?

So come to me,
When I’m asleep;
Live in my dreams,
And never leave.

’cause it’s your memory that keeps me going;
Though you’re gone, I feel your presence growing.
I never thought that I could live without you
But if I close my eyes, it’s like I don’t really have to

In a crowded room, I can feel alone—
You always knew when to take me home—
But if I turn off the lights, I can feel you near,
And when I go to sleep, well you’re still here.

So come to me,
When I’m asleep;
Live in my dreams,
And never leave.

When I’m asleep, come back to me.


Riding Seahorses

April 21, 2013

He stands, silent, still, staring out,
twin moons looking back;
their light bounces off the crests of waves
and the swell of clouds, spectral in the night sky.
Behind him, the dark swallows up the world,
perching him here on the edge of the earth,
waves crashing before him,
licking at his bare feet likes flames
from the depths of hell.
He doesn’t make a sound, he just listens.
Listens and watches.
He isn’t afraid – it’s more than fear;
he respects the sea.
Such formidable power,
the strength to create and to destroy,
to shape a world,
to take a life.
He remembers his sister –
how she loved the sea –
her tousled hair, her freckled cheeks, her tireless grin,
the terrible silence that replaced her.
He imagines her stricken, fighting the currents,
falling forever – down to the darkest part of this black world.
He imagines her cries stifled by salty, unsatiable breaths.
He imagines the light leaving her eyes, her body still.
He imagines her swimming with mermaids and riding seahorses.
He smiles.
How she loved the sea.

Moving On

April 13, 2013

I can feel you forgetting me,
feel myself fading.
Once I flowed through you,
rushing like a river,
slicing great canyons of sorrow
but now that river has stilled
and is slowly freezing solid.

I can feel you moving on,
feel myself falling behind.
Once I walked beside you,
ever present,
casting a shadow across your heart,
but now that shadow has diffused
and is slowly giving way to a new light.

I can feel you loving again,
feel myself losing my grip.
Once I encompassed your world,
the only thing you believed in,
holding you back from life,
but now that anxiety has dropped away
and is slowly becoming the past.

I can feel a great relief,
feel you living your dreams.
Once I worried you were broken for good,
lost alone forever,
but now you are taking steps anew
and are slowly becoming who you once were.

The Poet

October 25, 2012

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

And with a thousand rhymes,
I’ve lost a thousand times
for none of them did last.
Every love I ever wrote
has faded into past.
And every girl I write to life,
I take to higher climes,
with deeper loves and longer verse
but every foray ends the same
– as though I have been cursed –
for every poem ends in pain,
a trend that’s growing worse.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

But for a thousand years
or so it seems,
I’ve written only tears.
And a thousand dreams
have left me only fears,
for none have ended happily.
Just like all my poetry;
When the final line is writ
I am left with only me
and any light that might have lit,
once the poem ends, dies with it.
And the thousand loves I’ve brought to be
have all thus waned inevitably.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

Oh, I have loved a thousand women;
None of them were real.
Not one of them could feel
the love I felt for her.
The heartbeats that I wrote
were never really there
and all the forms my pen caressed
and all the faces fair,
all the golden hair
and all the moments shared
existed only on the page,
the fickle paper stage
I made for them
to dance upon,
for them to love me on –
I, the only one who ever cared.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

A thousand dreams;
a thousand lines;
a thousand rhymes;
a thousand smiling pairs of eyes;
a thousand women
in my mind.
And if my mind’s where they must be,
then what is in this world for me?
Why live on interminably
if I must be so lonely?
A thousand loves I’ve had;
a thousand lives I’ve lived
and yet I’m left so sad.
For they are all behind
but who’s to say that they weren’t real?
And who’s to say that I won’t find
a thousand more in time?
I only need to write another opening line…

I have loved a thousand women;
all of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles.
I’ve lived a thousand lives
and loved a thousand times,
all inside my mind.
So why go back outside?



Read more: Poetry Here and Now

ix. Whisper (A Rondel)

July 20, 2011

“Goodbye, my love”, he heard her say,
a whisper carried through the trees,
a murmur, soft upon the breeze,
of words he’d known he’d hear one day,

but never thought would come this way.
He thought at least she’d hear his pleas.
“Goodbye, my love”, he heard her say,
a whisper carried through the trees.

She left him sad, alone and grey –
she didn’t pause or give reprise;
she didn’t see him on his knees;
one night, she simply went away.
“Goodbye, my love”, he heard her say,
a whisper carried through the trees.



Written while listening to Caoineadh Cú Chulainn (Lament)

i. Rain City

March 4, 2011

Above them glowed a golden sun,
The first they’d seen of it in years.

The people gazed up at the sky,
At something they had long forgot;

For so long, rain was all they’d known;
The rain defined their lives; The rain,
Had been the only thing they could,
Depend upon. From morning right,
Through every day, the rain came down.

There were a few among them who,
Had been around before the rain,
But none remembered how it felt,
The rain had washed those days away.

For all the rest, the sun was new,
An alien come from the grey;
That soft grey safety blanket they,
Had been wrapped up in right from birth.
And now that blanket had been snatched!

Exposed, they stared up at the sun;
It stung their eyes and burned their skin;

They soon all ran for cover from,
This stranger in the sky. And this,
This scramble for the shade was what,
Sparked memories for that small few,
The few that had survived this long.

They suddenly remembered how,
They too had run for shelter when,
The rain began to fall. There was,
A time when they had hidden from,
The rain; A time when they had missed,
The sun… And now it had returned,
To grant them warmth once more.

But how were they to tell the rest,
Who loved the rain, and loved the dark,
The clouds it cast above, the grey,
It painted in their sky, the cold,
It’s blanket wrapped them in. How could,
They ever understand that this,

This brightness, boldness, heat, was good?
A thing for them to bask in, not,
A thing to fear; A thing to set,
Them free from dreary servitude;
A thing to light their way; A source
Of vibrant joy. The light it cast,
Could rid them of the apathy,
The rain had filled them with; Could help,
Them live again, if only they,
Could see the truth. But fear of change,
Impeded them – Their fear, it made,
Them yearn for rain, for what they knew,
And when the sun persisted, they,
Rose up as one and put up walls,
To block its light; To keep its heat,
At bay, to claw their blanket back.

Eventually, the elders passed,
’til none remained from days before,
The rain. No, none were left to teach,
The rest to leave the shade and trust,
The sun. And thus, they stayed inside,
For good and raised their young the same.

The sun burned on, up in the sky,
But none who lived there let its light,
Shine on their lives; they never felt,
It’s warmth upon their skin again.

They never knew the joy the sun,
Could bring; They never felt the sense,
Of freedom that it promised them.



Inspired by the title of the song, ‘Rain City‘, by Turin Brakes.

xxv. What Was Once

February 5, 2011

What was once,
Is not now,
And ’twill not be again.

Once it’s gone –
No mind how –
’twill never be the same.



Inspired by @MyWordWizard‘s prompt: “What was once…”

xxiii. Haunted

February 1, 2011

Sweeping the floor,
I find a reminder;
It’s long and black.
It shatters me;
It brings me to my knees.

This morning,
It was your lipstick mark,
Still on your coffee cup;
Last night,
It was your perfume,
Still on my pillow.

Now it’s this hair,
Lay as if in ambush,
Waiting for me,
To find it there,
That stops me,
In my tracks.

I cannot live this way,
With your ghost,
Haunting my apartment.
You dominate my dreams,
And you surround me,
When I am awake.

Even when I leave,
Your chewing gum’s,
Still in my car;
Your favourite song,
Is on my radio;
The seat’s reclined,
Just the way,
You liked it.

I’m haunted by,
My happiest memories –
Of a time,
That was so perfect.
I have no nightmares,
When I sleep and yet,
Somehow this is worse.

These happy memories,
Surrounding me,
But always,
Out of reach;
They terrorise,
Taunt me;
They’re driving me,

I wake up in the night,
I’m sleeping on ‘my side’,
As though,
You’re still there.
I can’t roll over,
Because the cold,
Will tell me,
What I already know,
But cannot bear to feel.

Getting ready for work,
I pick my toothbrush up,
From beside yours.
Yours is the red one –
Your favourite colour.
You’ll never use it now,
But there it sits,
Staking it’s claim.

Out of habit,
I still cook,
Too many eggs,
In the morning.
Yours go to the dog,
But it’s still enough,
To remind me.

I wonder,
When I will be exorcised,
Of these,
My happiest memories;
Memories of a happiness,
I can no longer bear.



Inspired by the following lyric:
“Got your lipstick mark/ Still on your coffee cup”
I’m not a fan of Take That, but that one line has always stood out to me as being somehow genius.

xxi. Old Flames

January 28, 2011

The first time I have seen you in so long,
Here on the street and you’re with him. We meet,
An awkward smile, a stuttered hug, a kiss,
On either cheek and then, of course, I shake,
His hand. A man’s handshake to counteract,
How weak and how inferior I feel.
As much as I would like, I can’t ignore,
Him. It would just be impolite. As much,
As I may hate him, simply ’cause he’s next,
To you, I’m nothing if not nice. I shake,
His hand and try to seem unbothered by,
His presence. What I wouldn’t give for just,
Five minutes like it used to be, just you,
And me and no one else. Five minutes like,
It used to be, Five minutes feeling like,
I’m all you need. Don’t you remember how,
You used to feel that way? How I was all,
You needed; All you thought you’d ever need?

I still don’t know what happened; How or why,
Things changed between us all that time ago,
And when I see you in the street, my heart,
Still skips and takes my breath from me, for just,
A beat. I wonder if you feel it too;
If, even though you walked away from me,
There’s something there inside you still, some deep
Connection that will never break because,
Of what we had back then. Some way in which,
We joined as one and will always remain.
Your smile gives absolutely nought away,
And for a moment I am terrified,
That you don’t want to speak to me, that I,
Am nothing but an inconvenient,
Reminder of a past you’d rather have,
Forgotten altogether. But your eyes;
Your eyes are warm, they burn right into me,
The face you try to keep indifferent,
Uncovered for the liar that it is,
By something in your eyes. There’s something there,
That reaches out and feels for me as I,
Come close. Your eyes look over me and seem,
To yearn for me in ways you can not let,
Your body show, and with that subtle glance,
I see you savour every inch of me.
I see regret form deep inside, I see,
How well you know the mistake that you made,
How well you know the life you could have had,
If only you had stayed here by my side.

And still I do not know what made you leave.
Our searching eyes send pleas across the void,
That lies between, policed by whomever,
You’re seeing now. We linger maybe just,
A second longer than we should and when,
We realise, your gaze drops quickly to,
The ground and mindless small talk takes the place,
Of all the million words we said in just,
A moment with our eyes. This guy you’re with,
Oblivious to what is going on.
Oblivious to flames relit; to old,
Affection given life a-new. We talk,
About our families, our jobs and “How,
Is Steve?” “You know, I haven’t seen him in,
So long.” But words mean nothing to us now,
For something’s happening between us now,
Some magic that we’d let ourselves forget,
Rekindles all the flames that we had let,
Be beaten down. I start to feel a pang,
Of guilt, or maybe it’s just pity, for,
The person standing by your side, his wide,
Uncomfortable grin not able to,
Conceal the deep uneasiness he feels,
At being stranded on the outskirts of,
Our conversation, with no way of joining in;
No common ground to help him break into,
The channel we have built across the void.

He stands there with his arms down by his side,
Just looking like a misplaced prop upon,
The stage of our reunion scene. Of course,
He doesn’t know what’s blossoming between,
Us. Actually, he thinks I seem quite dull.
He doesn’t realise that we almost,
Don’t even know what we’ve been speaking of,
The real conversation has no words;
We’re speaking just to hide the rhumba that,
We’re dancing in the space between us, right,
Here on the street. A dance that nobody
Can see but one that’s sending sparks from soul,
To soul. He shuffles on his feet, a poor,
Attempt at catching your attention, so,
That he can say “We don’t want to be late.”
But what he doesn’t realise is that,
Whatever plans they have have all been dropped,
Appointments cancelled right here on the street.
He might be going home with her, but they,
Are done. It’s almost sad that he can’t see,
That you’ve already broken up with him.

And yet, a part of me is hesitant.
You left me once, how can I know that you,
Won’t tear me up again; That you won’t just,
Get bored of me and throw me out again?
Through all the fire that burns between us, right,
here on the street, I feel a sudden chill.
It rushes up my spine and lunges for,
My heart, the same cold stab I felt back when,
You left. A flicker darts across my eyes,
It’s almost nonexistent but you see,
It take me down. And then I see in yours,
A flicker too. Remorse for what you did.
Our dance comes to a fumbled end, our form,
All gone. The wildfire that was roaring just,
Now barely smoulders on. The dream that we,
Were living in disperses and we’re left,
Here on the street lost deep in some banal,
Discussion about work, or weather, or…
Your guy’s still standing there uneasily,
His hands now in his pocket and he jolts,
Awake from day-dreaming as soon as we,
Begin that awkward waltz of rushed goodbyes.
And then, it’s done. I turn to walk away,
And you take up his hand and head off home.

He’ll never know how close to losing you,
He was. I’ll never know just how much you,
Regret the way you left, and you regret,
The way your leaving then just lost me once,
again right here. You’ll never know how much,
I hate the fear that’s driven me away,
From something I believe was meant to be.

xi. Counting Novembers

January 14, 2011

A mother remembers,
She’ll never forget,
Counting Novembers,
And candles not lit.

Drowned in dismay,
The time idles past,
Here comes a third birthday,
As sad as the last.

No cards on the fireplace,
The calendar bare,
No children play chase;
There’s no party here.

Counting Novembers,
And bearing the sorrow,
No cheerful new members,
No need for tomorrow.

The dining room table,
A seat always spare,
Dad never able,
To lay breakfast there.

The bed he won’t sleep in,
A room never dusted,
The hate they can’t keep in,
At a God no more trusted.

No chance to move on,
No dousing the embers,
No mercy at hand from,
Counting Novembers.



Inspired by the following quote:

“My baby would have been three now. Each year, we remember the time in our own way. We talk about the birthday in November that will never be written in the calendar. It feels like there will always be an empty space at our table, a bedroom that was never slept in . . . I’m not sure I’ll ever stop counting Novembers . . .” ~
 A mum