I Am Lost In The Waving Purple

Her eyes
Are not the colour of lavender,
But they are.


Up close
They are distinct, faceted flowers,
But they aren't.


Her eyes.
I am lost in the waving purple.
Lavender.





Parkstreet

Sherlock Holmes Himself

The detectives
In old novels
Poke through ashes,
Find a clue, 
That leads
To understanding.

Sherlock Holmes
Himself
Could search our hearth,
The ashes,
What might have been,
And find nothing.





Parkstreet

I'd Walk A Mile For A Camel

I'd walk
A mile for a Camel.
Another ten miles
To smoke it,
In bed
Beside you.


I'd blow smoke rings
Through the eye
Of a needle,
To show you
I was
In heaven.





Parkstreet

Ko-fi

Seven League Boots

It may not look like it,
But this old, black, denim jacket is
A pair of 

Seven

League

Boots.

It belonged to her.
When I wear it I can

Step

Over


Anything.





Parkstreet

Newtown

He lay flowers,
Despite his loss,
On the lawn
Of the killer's house.

He spat,
As he walked away.





Parkstreet

Don't Bother Fixing It

The intercom being broken
In my apartment
Is like a medium
Losing her talent.

There is nobody there
Anyway.





Parkstreet

Seymour And Me

The little girl on the plane
Who turned her doll’s head around
To look at me

The last words, scrawled in pencil on a hotel room blotter, of the J. D. Salinger character Seymour Glass, before he completed suicide. His search for the childlike state of connection between mind and universe a failure, in him, in his innocent romantic love, in his imagination. 

I ponder this poem on days like today. I wonder if I will leave a poem in a hotel room one day, when the state of being I desire eludes me one too many times?

Dry emptiness kiss
Autumn falling from her eyes
Red brown lost love leaves







Parkstreet

Ko-fi