Afghanistan or Iraq?Here you stand alone.
Facing the oncoming storm.
Forecast says there will be bloodshed,
You prepare for battle.
Horses will be saddled up,
And hearts turned to stone.
For we are the knights galloping into battle.
Fast-forward a couple millenniums,
Bullets will tear through our chests,
A silent cry of help as you bled dry.
John Hamish Watson,
Deceased on November 4th, 2010.
Here you stand alone.
Elegant hair curls down around your ears,
And you clench your fists around the paper,
It crinkles in your grasp.
You are silently crying.
Beautiful DawnYou smiled at me on the train this morning.
Red lips parted,
As if you were holding back
All you had to say.
And your eyes were twin lakes,
Twinkling in the light of dawn.
The noise of the train tracks rattling
Beneath our feet was the only reason why I told myself
"I'll get up the nerve to talk to you tomorrow."
It had been two weeks since you first turned
My life upside down,
For you were Beauty,
And I was the Beast.
Instant MessageIt is five in the morning
And dawn is just beginning
To caress the sky.
Your placid body lays
Bathed in the faint glow
My back is pressed up against
A polished wood headboard;
A guardian angle watching over you.
The rise and fall of your diaphragm
Reassures me of your permanent existence.
You are here, really here.
After every letter we’ve sent,
Every tear shed,
My love through the Internet,
Is here in my arms.
Chasing The RainIt is raining outside
When your car pulls up.
Raindrops cascading down,
Puddles wet and soppy.
The thick whole of your coat
Keeps the chill from escaping inside,
But your hands still get wet.
Gloves forgotten at a home far away,
Prior to the seven-hour flight,
Stale airplane food,
And a faster heartbeat.
The sound of your knock is faint,
As if you wished you hadn’t come
All this way,
Just to say goodbye.
Heart in my throat,
Feet frantic on the stairs,
I wrench open the door separating us.
No one’s there.
Just the empty porch,
The cheery porch swing I
And the rain falling from the sky.
Coffee or TeaEarly morning sunlight
Peppers my kitchen wall
In horizontal patterns.
The teakettle is boiling,
Splitting through a placid calm;
Trains screaming into the bright dawn.
Still sleepy eyed and rumpled,
You slip into my embrace with ease,
All warm skin and the smell of peppermint.
“G’Morning you mumble, yawning.
Blue eyes peer up into mine;
Twin blue skies.
I whisper against your soft cheek.
“Coffee or tea?”
Your head is already buried in
This morning’s newspaper.
You poke your head around the parcel,
A smile curving your lips.
“Tea, my answer is always going to be tea.”
“Sugar or honey?”
Tea DrinkerYou are bathed in the white light
That comes streaming in the kitchen window.
A white silk robe is wrapped around your delicate body;
A swan in the moonlight.
I lean down, dropping two
Cubes of sugar into your Earl Gray tea,
Stirring as the spoon clanks against the glass.
Your short-cropped hair leaves your neck empty and bare.
Two delicate collarbones are gentle hills in the valley of your sternum.
Pale pink lips smile at me as I hand you your tea,
The cup scalding against my hand.
A brief flutter of bare lashes and a gentle
Kiss on the cheek is my reward.
A hint of a blush upon my cheeks
Is apparent as I wrap my arms around you.
“Told you I could make tea,” I murmur into the silence that is Sunday.
Frozen SymphonyThe winter wind whips
Around, caressing your uncovered shoulders
With icy fingertips.
Cold, dark branches dip
From above the petite body of a girl.
She was found yesterday morning
Just as the sun crested the mountain,
Bathing the valley in liquid gold.
Frozen fingers clenched into tiny fists,
Eyelashes long turned white from the falling snow,
And blue lips still shaped in a silent cry for help.
“I’m just going for a walk, mama.
I will be right back.” She had said, reassuring her ever-worried mother.
Tear tracks down an aged face.
Her precious daughter nothing but a frozen body in the snow.
Eyes ClosedCold hands,
A rickety frame.
Soft feminine curves,
A heart of glass.
You are the postcard
Pressed into my mother’s cookbook.
Long smeared with the residue
Of recipes gone wrong.
Your eyes hold the
Deepest of seas;
They are disturbingly vacant.
As if no one was there when you cried.
No one to sooth the shivers wracking havoc
Across your shoulder blades.
Strong, sure fingers,
A solid bone structure;
The sturdy mass of a ship.
Soft white sails,
Worn trustworthy wood,
An anchor of steel.
It’s going to be all right, my dear.
Just hold on tight,
Shut your eyes,
And we’ll be in the eye of the storm
Before you know it.
PhotographsShe is vintage.
Black and white, grainy
Photographs sealed away.
Delicate features; almost doll-like,
Form memories out of nothing.
She is stolen,
Like the German Christmas bread.
It took two sets of parents to raise her
Until she was deemed “Perfect.”
She is just a face in an old photo album
mother put up inside the attic.
Gathering dust by day and slowly slipping from
She is that girl you see
Tucked into the armchair at the corner coffee shop.
Her nose forever stuck in a book of poetry.
E.E. Cummings today.
You pause, wondering if you will startle her,
But take the chair beside her anyway.
She casts a wary glance in your direction
mid-page turn, makes sure you’re not a threat,
and continues reading.
You clear your throat,
a quite in-take of breath,
She is startled.
Her eyes are full of questions,
And it breaks your heart.
“Might I buy you a cup of tea
to go with your book, miss?”
A sudden burst of color blooms
Atop her cheeks.