Not Lost in France
Poetry
Hanging on In.
Even as I held her hand
eyes once
so full of
mischief
beckoned me to
begin to
understand
the parting of
the ways
we’d walked.
Life light struggling through
the plastic curtains as
Spring sunshine
faded on
our once
laughter filled
past.
Shadows forming in
my mind from
other moments
other hurts.
I told her to
hang on in
She just
closed her eyes
Swallowing my tears I
turned
to smile but
something
betrayed me and
I was left
there
hanging on in
to
her
silence.
Dave English @ April 2004.
I Don't Know.
I don’t know
how it happened
but as I was passing
through the mirror
of my
desires
the bathroom exploded
leaving sky blue walls
with sick black stains
so this is where life
had taken me
I don’t know
how it happened,
or the
reasons
why
but as I picked up the
pieces,
in the distance
a child
began to
cry.
David English (c) January 2002
Bathroom Blues.
Handed down
remnants
of past lives
reflected
in
tired blue
eyes.
Washing away
another
whisky glazed
night passed
in a strangers
arms
unfolding
his distressed
aching body
to the
sound of
paid for
ecstasy.
He smiled
as death
knocked with
humour
on the
bathroom door.
Loves illusion
replaced
by cold coffee
and the
sick black stain
of a
shattered portrait.
Struggling for
existence
he returned
to the
torment
of words
that were
choking
away his
life.
David English(c) June 1st 2003.
Crab .
I would have held her
tighter
at that
particular
moment, tighter than,
just like I’d held her
before.
Before, when nymph like,
She’d danced,
danced around the room
in carefree nudity
laughing at my
so shocked
british attitude.
Now the dance
has finished, even though
we traced a macabre waltz
in her room
turning slowly as the
laughter turned
to tears
Holding her gently
fearing the porcelain
fragility
kissing her soul
through the hollowed shell
where once smiling eyes
would greet me
laying her down and
learning,
learning about life
and all
that
this fragile
silhouette
had taught
me.
Scott. N. Momaday.
Nomad thoughts,
words dancing
sweeping through
the room
wisdom’s smiling eyes
watch as they
fall in to place
one by one.
Vultures, deafened
by
their own
convictions gather,
hungry for other
truths
but keeping to their own,
forgetting to grasp a passing
dancing word.
The black and white
shadowed jealousy
mingles with
offered wine.
Conversations hiding
future betrayals,
ignorant of the moment
they’d missed.
He was far away
riding on clouds
but his smile remained
I saw him laugh
as an eagle swept
through their
indifference
The man who made words
dance freely
in the plains
of yet another
Indian Summer
shared, for an instant,
whispered dancing words
with those who’d listened to
his silence
and
heard the
rush
of
invisible
wings.
Dave English © October 2003.
