Didn’t they always tell you;

Stay away too long,

Nobody’ll recall your name;

The sand’ll pile up against the doors;

Cover your footprints, hide your routes.

Didn’t they always tell you,

The ones that always know what’s best,

Stay away; minds’ll change, God’s biggest leaves

Will drift and hide your pleasures.

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the Loneliest of Ghosts

 

 

Here, feel the desperate-sad,

Ready-to-expire character

Surrounding the deserted,

Edge of mid-town buildings;

The ones avoided by rats

And shunned by even

The loneliest of ghosts.

Here, glimpse the eyeless,

Broken-pained windows

That briefly grasp at  skypieces

But fail to hold their interest.

Holes where slates once held

A certain vertigo-sway,

Injured-bone joists,

White tumbled bricks,

Floor without full boards,

Webs without cobs …

Stairs without risers.

There’s nothing here –

Neither arch nor fair, and

I cannot say there ever was,

Being stranger here myself,

With doors to lock,

Promises to keep

And ways to make.

Always

“Back to life,

Back to reality…”

“We’re not here today …”

The lady answering the ‘phone

Lied so sweetly,

And we shared a knowing smile –

Me, willing to overlook

Her temporary falsehood –

She, forgiving my eavesdropping.

 

I always push the doors

I need to pull

And close the windows

I ought to keep open.

 

13/9/2012

 

About Doors

Through December-strange windows,

Silver framed by frost’s craftwork,

A pair of yellow roses bloom still:

Chariot-ghosts of summer-gone moons,

Like steady, pale cream flames in falling snow.

And, I have been thinking much

About doors these past weeks:
I won’t be using this one much longer,

And it won’t remember me.

Why would it?

11/12/2011