Poem#24 You

The last light of day

illuminates your hand,

long fingers, short nails.

Hands that spell out

that you are a man,

other to me, my own hand is

lost in yours and yet

fits as it should.


Shadow is on your face,

but the gleam is in your

eyes, the windows to your

truth and sincerity. I feel your smile,

your smile, your lips drip honey and

honey and jewels, tones

of tenderness, whispers

of need for my love for you.


The heavy air lazily stirs

the wind chimes, the gentle

music almost lost to us. We

talk and are silent, both are

our connection. Touch is enough,

though listening to you feeds

me, nourishes. Your leg arches

over mine, I am safe, understood,

my home is you.




Poem#23 Bard

Not the day of his birth, his coming to this world,

but the date his christened William Shakespeare.

Now four centuries since he passed away.


He dwelt among folk of many races,

since trade with the east brought spice,

cloths, religions, philosophies.

Thus he wrote a richness that few have matched.


Puns and satire, he played with words,

and turned roles of gender right around in

‘Romeo and Juliet’ – she was eager, he the passive.

It’s a ridicule of a love story of those times.

Quick of wit and dryness, it is still thought

to be a love story. He has fooled the experts

til this day!


Women faired not well – compliant daughters

or nagging wives. Oh, yes, true to the times he

was a good misogynist! Controlling fathers, thwarted



But the language he coined for us, so rich, moving,

tragic, fun.We speak them daily and remember not

that we owe them to the Bard

Poem#17 Also…Poet

He comes from a broken home –

the child to fix a marriage of huge egos.

He was two and his sister a

decade older, so he was like an only child, and

became the family mascot –

the clown, craving love, validation.

Attention seeker, he could draw,

he could act, he was gifted and

precocious. He tried art as a

career, photography too, but

no… Then he realised he was

writing poetry as well as acting.

Mostly the fool. He mastered

depreciation, the joke at his expense

so that he would be liked and loved.

(There are holes in his soul.)

He also mastered poetry, and how!

My favourite living poet…

Because he acts, he can be caught

off guard, and can be ferocious.

Few people know him, they are lost

in his charm which he has by the

spade and his poetry – so clever

in every possible way.

He is still unhealed. Still the two

year old craving attention.