The Love That Was

The love that was, where does it go?
Why does it slip away?
She wonders, as the autumn slow
Comes drifting in with orange glow,
To keep her hopes at bay,
To keep her hopes at bay.

The love that was, why does it rage
And storm to find no port?
Just scribbled hearts upon a page,
The price of pain, the lover’s wage,
And dreams cut far too short,
And dreams cut far too short.

The love that was, why does it end?
Why should such sorrow be?
But none can ever comprehend
The ways of life and loss of friend
Or love, that endless sea —
Or love, that endless
Sea

It Doesn’t Matter Anymore

It doesn’t matter anymore,
The “she” that once was everything;
It doesn’t matter anymore:
It’s time for what the new days bring.

It doesn’t matter anymore:
The plans, the dreams, the arguments;
It doesn’t matter anymore:
For she is gone, to all intents.

It doesn’t matter anymore,
The words that don’t add up to jack;
It doesn’t matter anymore:
There is no point in looking back —

It doesn’t matter anymore,
But I’m still grieving, I confess:
For she does not care anymore,
And I do not care any

Less

a scaring

the fall lay empty you
and i were sitting in
abandonment

but you were gone
you’d long been gone
i turned to look and you were gone
away

the autumn sank into,
beneath, the winds
of hollowness

but i was done
i’d long been done
so many happy things we’d never
done

a habit of ingratitude
that’s past the point of speech,
a scaring off of what grief is,
a knowledge beyond reach

october and a lonely wind,
a leaf blows by, and knows
that it is dead

i turn again to look for you,
for you will never leave
nor will this
dread

The Ugliness of Life

The ugliness of life, it waits
Around the corner, in the dark;
For all we might procrastinate,
The ugliness of life will leave it’s mark.

For long with patience will it seek
The moments we are down, or weak,
And scour down the shores and docks,
The country roads, or city blocks,
Or happy pathways in the mist
That we might hap to walk upon.
The ugliness of life, it sits
And from its hiding place, it won’t be drawn.

Until the moment it might choose
To show itself, to our regret:
When all we seem to have, we lose,
And our few certainties, upset.
Yet still we travel, as we must,
Our meagre stock of hope and pride,
With ugliness around, we trust
It’s sister, loveliness, is just outside…

The ugliness of life is there,
Around the corner, every day;
In all we seek, for all we dare,
The ugliness of life won’t
Go away

Imperfect Love (A True Story)

Imperfect love was perfect for them.
He recalls their wedding day —
Radiant in joy and sunshine,
Always, in his mind, that way

Never in a hundred lifetimes
Could he ever have foreseen
That she would be taken from him;
Left to celebrate and keen

For a ghost he longs for nightly,
Loneliest of earthly men;
Dreaming of imperfect love that
He will never find
Again

This Sting We Feel

This sting we feel’s because we’re new,
We’ve never felt this way before;
The billions who have known of grief
Aren’t useful for this, any more
Than anyone who might not know

Because we’re lone, our sorrow’s lone.
We want to share, but don’t know how;
The burden shames us, weighs us down,
Fills up the endless present now
No matter where we go

And though we fly or walk or drive
Across the hills or valleys green,
Distractions vernal all around,
It’s only dolor that we’ve seen:
Our mortal lives around us show,
And ever so,
Forever
So

Reynold’s Hill

There, past the stanchion, on the street,
Sad little boy with his only friend:
Rain has been falling, beat on beat,
Evening is crawling, nights don’t end —

Where is the hand to smooth his face?
Where are the arms to hold him close?
She’s sleeping under Reynold’s Hill,
Just past a soggy
Paper
Rose