Good Friday I eat passion fruit.
Seeds crack
between my teeth
and I swallow sweet.
Hope, hope again
above despair.
Poetry?
When it’s spring again
Hope springs eternal
Buds burst to flower
Spring brings us eternal hope
Edinburgh Springtime
Edinburgh springtime
T-shirts, sandals, sunglasses
Tourists in mufflers
Rhyming hills
Rhyming hills and rills
with frills, spills and crocodills –
Spring can cause those thrills
Chipped concrete
chipped concrete flowers
hard rain on dust, mud runs thick
living the project
How many heartbeats
How many heartbeats in a lifetime?
How many can I save for you?
In ancient times it was believed that, illness and violence permitting, you lived until your heart had beat a certain number of times. I think I read somewhere recently that scientists had found some evidence for this.
My heart races, chases, races when I am with you.
I feel my box of heartbeats ebb towards empty.
It makes sense I suppose. All other things being equal, heart muscle bumps and thumps until it tires, slows (perhaps) and stops.
I lie, relax and stretch when I know you will not be with me.
I feel my chest rise, fall, rise again. I feel the heartbeat slow.
Because, you see, if I don’t use too many heartbeats when you are not here, I have more to use when you are.
I’m saving all my love for you. My love.
I’m saving all my heart for you. My love.
*****
How many heartbeats in a lifetime?
How many can I save for you?
My heart races, chases, races when I am with you.
I feel my box of heartbeats ebb towards empty.
I lie, relax and stretch when I know you will not be with me.
I feel my chest rise, fall, rise again. I feel the heartbeat slow.
I’m saving all my love for you. My love.
I’m saving all my heart for you. My love.
Friends shyly hold hands
Friends shyly hold hands
like the moon touching the ground
through the trees in Spring
Found in street
Look left
Smoking kills
Look right
Dispose of responsibly
No pies kept on this van
Pedestrians use other side
Jesus saves
Keep clear
This will be the mother
This will be the mother of all days.
The day when all the ways I miss you
will be revealed. And all the devils
in the detail, and all the stories I still write
for you, tall tales of shameless derring do,
of fisher folk on the tempested seas,
all the tiny hints I write
for you to seize on,
knowing you will never read them
or even know they are there.
Oh, this will be the mother of all days.
Exhalation, inspiration
Exhalation
Inspiration
Your breath on my dandelion mind
simonsalento 