Everything and Nothing

You were my security blanket
that I shop-lifted from
your store of dreams;
I grey painted over
your summer skies
and tarmac’d
your fields of green;
I built a car park
in your flower bed and
pissed all over your chips;
whilst you did everything
to stop me falling apart
and nothing; nothing that is
but give.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Same coin different sides

Stop laughing
this is serious;
this is my life
not undergraduate
essay drearyness;

You are toying
with my emotions
as I stand lost for words;
you laugh at the unfunny bits
as I expose my fear
and hurt;

You never really understand
the dreams I tried to convey;
I see the irony now
two years passed
since you walked away.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Stormy Weather

I sit in the rays of the sun
and try to touch the prism
that colours my heart and hand;

then clouds dim the light
and overshadow the dreams
for our life I had planned.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Means on Toast

You can’t put toast
back in the toaster
once it is out and buttered;

and I can’t swallow back
the words that hurt you
I so foolishly
last year uttered.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Guess what I was doing when I wrote this?

Where everything is found

I under-reached for the keys and
the coffee table I knocked over;
I found no keys but
nine-tenths of my heart
I’d given to you;
unused and hidden
beneath the sofa.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Computer Lover

Defragging my disk
my thoughts turn to you;
did you clean up your life
when you deleted me in June?

Did I analyse too much?
Leave a bad sector in your mouth?
Was I nothing more than
an unused extension?
a temporary file you knew nothing about?

We used to be so contiguous
never more than one percent apart;
my heart mirrors my heart now,
forever fragmented and hard.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

I used to think De-fragmenting my computer hard drive was a waste of time but it’s funny how close the inspiration to write can sometimes be.

Return to sender

one ex-wife.
if found
please return
to sender:
she has brown hair,
a sharp left hook,
a beautiful smile and
hips not too slender;

She looks a little melancholy
yet she still talks tough;
she always keeps an open mind
and never her mouth shut;

She has the gift of a fierce temper,
she is beyond my drowning arms,
she is five feet seven in her socks
and out of trees the birds she can charm;

She gives electricity back to the National Grid
for her smile lights up the room;
her only mistake in life
was to carry a mill-stone; a fool;

She has the weight of the world
on her shoulders,
small feet and tattoos
all over her back;
she always walks perfectly tall
even though I drove her mad;

She has a hairy mole
on her left cheek,
not on her bum but her face;
She talks with no accent
and carries herself with grace;

When you see her
you will instantly know
how utterly insane I was
to give her one reason to go.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

Two songs that stop me in my tracks:

Bill Withers: Ain’t no sunshine:

Willie Nelson: She is gone

Polar Opposites

We are poles apart
me the north,
you the south;

We are poles apart
of all the
that froze
in my mouth.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

Tell them you love them. Tell them you are having a bad day, tell them you don’t mean to be quiet. Just tell them.

Eyes on the prize

I stepped backward from reality
the distance at first the room,
you in the chair, talking,
me somewhere on the moon.

The silences grew wider
room broadened width to street,
I abandoned all that surrounded me
and looked inward to my feet.

Through this you kept on talking,
I, unrepentant, chose not to hear,
you warned about the distance,
your hopes, dreams and fears.

I stepped yet again backward;
twice more denied the world was real,
too late I woke from my imagination,
to find only echoes
of the love I didn’t heed.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

We dressed hurriedly

We dressed hurriedly,
routine fashioned by weekly practice
and soon step glove handed
into the star-less, car-less night air.

We knew what time to chance,
to cut as fine as we dare,
the down hill risk for your last bus.

Many would pass, all noise and diesel,
we watched cold travelling silhouettes fleet by
standing hands in opposite pockets
both for romance and for heat.

From the corner your bus looms large
the diesel and noise subside,
air brakes interrupt our last kiss,
grim faced passengers silently curse the delay
as if buses were private.

I glance at the back of the bus as its gears whine
and run back to the top of the hill, to my house
where the scent of you will linger on the bedclothes
long after you are home.

Copyright D. Archer October 2011