Not the Sum.

You’re not the sum of all the opinions

people throw at you on a daily basis.

You’re not the hate that comes your way

when others don’t get from you what they want,

and nor should you feel responsible

for all the ills of their own creation.

You’re not the expectations

of family or friends or all the people

that have crossed your path

during your journey through life,

nor are you the fears of your own demons,

a product of your environment.

You’re something far more than that;

everything you ever want to be and more;

all that love and affection

waiting to be showered upon someone,

all those hopes and dreams

waiting to be achieved.

You’re the rain that falls upon the land,

pitter-patter, pitter-patter,

instigating new life upon the barren earth;

the sunshine that then helps it grow

into something colourful,

spectacular and soothing;

the wind that rustles through the trees

and the pale moonlight that draws us in

on those cold, winter nights.

You’re not the sum of all the opinions

people throw at you

when they’re looking for excuses,

you’re the sum of your own about yourself.

And knowing you as I do,

as kind, gentle and infinitely beautiful

both inside and out,

you should feel nothing less

than like a boss.

The Twenty-Sixth of March.

.

Sitting by an open fire, logs crackling,

I’d read you poems by Robert Frost

and fables by Aesop

as translated by Caxton and published on this day;

I’d remind you of all the smiles you’ve given me

when I ask you what it is I can do for you in return,

to give you all your heart desires,

as one good deed really does deserve another.

I’d lead you outside in the dead of night

to gaze up at the heavens,

searching for Vulcan despite it being completely futile,

wondering whether Leonard Nimoy

really did come from there or not,

and we’d end the night watching Meteor 1-1

fall back to Earth in a blaze of illuminated glory.

We’d return to the warmth,

to marvel at Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis

and then rock out to Tommy on TV,

while we laugh about how email

brought us together in 2013

yet Queen Elizabeth sent her first in 1976.

I’d talk about how I broke down borders

with the Shengen Treaty

just to be with you today,

because despite all the great things

ever to occur on the twenty-sixth of March,

undoubtedly the greatest of them all

was your grand arrival

to light up the world as you do. 

.

Happy Birthday, Danielle! 

Merry Fucking Christmas.

Ok, so this is a rather long, and incredibly personal post in poem form. It’s taken me a decade to commit it to paper.

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Pick-Me-Up.

It pains me to see anything but a smile

upon your face;

a face so delicate and warm.

Frustrates me that I can’t be there

to help lift the gloom

and make things right.

. 

But If I could, I would wake you with a song,

not played by me of course

because that would be awful.

I’d wake you with coffee and eggs on toast,

perhaps a daffodil on the side to brighten the day.

. 

I would walk with you down the quiet streets of town,

hand in hand,

talking nonsense of life, and love, and probably lemons.

I’d sit with you on a park bench, surrounded by birds and

with your head resting upon my lap;

we’d listen to noisy kids’ laughter and mothers’ gossip,

gazing up at the wispy clouds that dot the clear blue sky.

. 

I would take you down to the river

and we’d sit on the side with our toes in the water,

spotting fish and otter and talking to ducks.

I’d tell you you’re beautiful, whispered in your ear

as the sun danced on the surface

making your eyes sparkle and your face glow.

. 

I’d walk you through the woods

collecting pinecones as we go,

oddly-shaped leaves and ladybirds

and nuts for the squirrels.

Through the forest we’d climb a mountain,

and watch the sunset from up high,

then I’d wrap a blanket around you as we settled down

to count shooting stars and name constellations.

. 

And when it got too cold and all our wishes spent

I’d find us one of those treehouses scattered about

that birdwatchers use and teenagers abuse,

and we’d cuddle in the corner telling stories

and sipping Scotch until dawn.

Then we’d find a café, somewhere quiet and quaint,

hold hands over the table and say not a word,

a hot drink to warm us up, maybe some cake,

without anything resembling a care in the world.

. 

In the cinema, a library, a museum or a mall,

I’d be there with grand plots and schemes

to try and arrest your fall.

Then when we were spent we’d go home,

to an open fire where I’d read you poetry and prose

in a hundred different accents,

and we’d lie on the bed listening to Mozart or Beethoven

until a deep, peaceful sleep took us both.

. 

And there, I’d hope above hope,

that somehow things were just

that little bit better than before;

the darkness receded and sadness subsided,

and that beautiful smile of yours

would dance its radiant dance once more.

Dreamer.

I have no business thinking in verse;

conjuring poetry about feelings

that have long lain dormant,

forgotten,

given up to the mercy of the winds of time

that have eroded them to almost nothing.

. 

No business eulogising in dreamsong;

closing my eyes and making light work

of the thousands of miles of space

that separate us so –

scaling mountains, traversing oceans,

hacking my way through the densest of forests

to break out the other side

and see you standing there.

. 

No business imagining the golden glow of daybreak

and the cool, light breeze

that ruffles our hair and teases our skin

as we watch it unfold before us

from our perch atop the world.

. 

No business gazing deep into your eyes,

stroking your palm with a fingertip

as your hand clasps mine,

no business whispering those three little words

that makes hopes and dreams reality.

.

No business offering you all that I have,

all that I am, and all that I will ever be;

despite that never quite being enough

to do justice to the beauty, splendour

and boyish excitement

brought to my head and my heart

whenever your name plays across my lips.

. 

I have no business

dreaming the impossible dream

of you

and I -

but I do it all the same.

For all that you give me

will forever be worth it.

Love Is.

.

Love is a fleeting glance over the breakfast counter,

as you get the kids ready for school

or skim the morning paper while hurriedly eating toast

and knocking back a coffee before heading off to work.

. 

Love is not walking hand in hand

along the banks of the Seine,

rose in her hand and rain softly,

and romantically, falling upon your heads.

. 

Love is gazing at the photograph in your wallet or purse

when you pull out a note

to pay for a dry, bland sandwich that is your lunch,

before returning to your desk for five hours’ more grind.

. 

Love is not a candlelit dinner in a fancy rooftop restaurant,

poetry read out across the table

while she rests her chin on her hand

and looks ever-longingly at you.

. 

Love is the weekly grocery shop,

braving the hordes of frenzied customers

in order to buy sustenance for you and your own,

and the snatched chance at some time together.

. 

Love is not the little notes left around the house,

whispering sweet nothings in overly-elaborate prose;

declarations of undying love and devotion;

thinly-veiled suicide pacts of the creative maelstrom.

. 

Love is coming home, exhausted, and collapsing on the sofa;

wrapping an arm around the one you care about most,

making small-talk about the stresses of the day

before you head to bed and a fitful night’s rest.

Passing.

We’re strangers in the night,

passing unseen

on the dark, open waters

of the ocean;

nothing but the faint splashing of oars

to confirm one another’s existence.

But I know that you are there,

and I hope that you know too;

the day we meet

when we both return to shore

the motivation that drives us on.

The day I see your smile

in more than just a picture;

smell the scent of your perfume,

more than just lingering

on a scarf I never take off

because it was a gift from you;

the touch of your lips,

full, luscious and delicate

upon my own.

Just strangers in the night,

passing unseen

on the dark, open waters

of the ocean –

but never alone.

Analysis.

Bleeding my life out onto a page

is quite the chore.

Probably because I have no idea

whether or not I actually have one,

or am trying to live many.

. 

I attempt it anyway

in the prose form I prefer;

hundreds and thousands of words

that are supposed to represent

my personality and my feelings.

. 

Lists of rights and wrongs,

dos and don’ts,

successes and failures,

hopes and fears and

all the other crap in-between.

. 

I don’t really get anywhere,

at least not at first.

Not until I realise that I’m

just clinging on to the past –

so I slap myself, in view of everyone.

. 

It works – people stare at me

like I’m some kind of lunatic,

but afterwards I feel a lot calmer.

I order a coffee and some cake,

and proceed to write something less sentimental bullshit.