We are all pockmarked by the scars of things that should have been otherwise, the way the moon bears the craters of collisions in space that it could do nothing to avoid.
My Year of Living Vulnerably, Rick Morton
Collision course
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Category Archives: Identity
Hope hurts
Filling trenches
Sweeping dead leaves
Planting new seeds
Weeds are salad greens
Expectations of future
Change is waylaid
Contentment is paid
Out in daily mail
Playwright tonight
Stack the deck
Pawn in check
Win and genuflect
Dark horse rooms
Ask me my stars
Swing me in bars
Strum my guitar
Never knowing
How to play cards
Show me your hand?
Disarm
Through friends strangers
Often meet
No thought given
To why
No wherewithall
To enquire
A life's story
Entreat
Just a smile
A kindness
A gravity
To feel
A movement
To hear
But wonder
Can it be?
Simple pleasures
Need no more
Introduction
Tolerate years of
Disruption
Only to unite
In time
With love
Hidden claw
For all its affections
Misconceptions
Personality
Individuality
Fiestiness
Boisterousness
Reticence
Malificence
Macavity's a mystery
Fickle to a fault
Dyed in the wool
Take you for a fool
Then curl on your mat
I could never be
A cat
More than rubies
Woman takes
Centre stage
Soft skin
Smooth lines
Bright smiles
Of youth
Woman gives
Middle ground
Blooming skin
Round time
Wide eyes
Of birth
Woman leaves
Empty nest
Thick skinned
Precious time
Bright eyes
Of worth
Where is our treasure?
Safe places
Never knowing
Nor hearing
Not believing
Or seeing
How deep
Tears fall
Better for all
Than being
With love
Room with a view
Loving you
As you wish
Me to
Simple belief
What divides
Also unites
With love
Room to grow
There is wisdom
In the choosing
Delicate frame
Tender name
There is kindness
In the holding
Generous room
Bright bloom
Together with another
Who cannot remain
With love
Daughter
There is a one I love
Who wanders far and free
Who pens adventures down
Her immortality
Her footsteps tread but lightly
Amidst nature's crown
Pause for meditating
Moments looking down
Her way is followed freely
By many searching ways
Weather turns and still she swills
A whisky end of day
If nature is a mother
She is a daughter true
Our itchy feet are longing
To tread behind in twos
Forgiving
I don’t blame you for giving me freedom.
Count the stars of heaven 