Future nightmares are on hold
As November is at end,
Too cold the streets we walk at night,
The plastic chairs are blown away
And the summer guests all went.
We are the ones who stay, my friend,
And I am glad for days we spend
Together on an empty beach in snow.
There is a hand for you to reach
And sudden sunsets as we go.
The latest light came over us
And we had no more than the moon,
A fire place, a candle lit, a match to go by;
Stars. Each other and a sea to feel.
We were simply happy for no reason
In a world of darkness,
In a thought under the moon,
In a night all over us.
Most happiness I find discovering how
The mind can wonder off
And take a voyage
Into someone else’s thought,
And to find treasures where I never sought
And to see mountains where I’ve never been
And never seen;
Feel rocks, the way they breathe
Through another hand resting, see
Through other eyes seeing, now
To feel comfort in you reassuring that
All will be fine one day.
And through your voice I do believe
That it is true of what you say.
I want the world to let me be
As I shall let the world
(There is enough said about what is going on in the world, just google the right words if you want more. I am disgusted, feel for the victims, and go on with living. That is my act of resistance.)
Of all the poems
The storm could write
It chose the one
About you and me
When we took shelter
And with every line it wrote
More of you vanished into leaves
Away from me forever
And we talked about laundry,
Soap bubbles, holidays,
Hammers that broke at first stroke,
Hamsters and cats running from us,
Floors which scream murder,
And books we had read, places
We went to and food that we liked,
All we said only meant to reassure
That we were still there together,
You and me in a sea green bed,
With sea green sheets,
Our clothes one pile
As we knew each other
In a different way, but the night
Had yet to be conquered.
So we kept talking till dawn.
November tenth waves branches in my face,
I would not mind some sunshine in the clouds,
A darkened day, another one ahead
And it is always better in my bed.
Outside a storm, inside a draught,
And coughing in the street, we all look pale.
I hate November and its hail. Its mist. Its snow.
Still twenty days to go. Then it’s December.
🙂 just having November blues