Poetry is my aeroplane

These hands have been around
These hands have held a newborn
These hands have touched with love
These hands have gestured happiness

These hands have held a sword
These hands have served the food
These hands have held a compass
These hands have shown the way

These hands have signed, I love you
These hands have said goodbye
These hands have called you back
These hands have held the door

These hands have tilled the soil
These hands have held a spade
These hands gathered produce
These hands have shared reward

These hands have touched the water
These hands have felt the sand
These hands have warmed each other
These hands have held you close

The hands have used a pencil
These hands have held a brush
These hands they are my gift
These hands will lift you up

The hammock swings ever so gently
Hemp rope knots creak expressively
My mind wanders
Chasing the dragon
Through a field of dreams.
Almond eyes
Silk curtains
Paper fans
A bone pipe.
Enabling my soul to be carried
Floating, above the blossoms
Through clouds of incense
And gentle touches as
Damp cloths cool my heated body.
A moan escapes
A smile appears
A shallow sigh
And the light fades.

Through the miasma of political rhetoric
A murmur of truth can be heard
Carried on a zephyr
Laden with tears and fear
And the whole world shrugs

I don’t believe in a god
There are too many to chose one
I don’t respect a book
I dog-ear the pages
I don’t often smile
I carry it on the inside

I do believe in humanity
Even though it lately lacks spirituality
I am a voracious reader
I leave finished books at bus stops
I am always polite
By being always quiet

I don’t like fried eggs with tomato
I am reminded of too many things
I don’t like to go out at night
I enjoy my own company and a bedside light
I don’t like to sleep in
I can walk before the crowds roll in

I do like boiled egg and tomato sauce sandwich’s
They remind me of school lunch
I love the night sky
When everybody else is asleep
I like my bed to be cold when I get in
And warm when I awaken early

I don’t like high places
They make my knees weak
I don’t like saying goodbye
I always sounds too final
I don’t like memorial markers
They remind me too much of loss

I wish I could fly
The world looks clean from up there
I like reunions
An opportunity to strengthen bonds
I like funerals and weddings
Emotions are visceral at both occasions

Regardless of my likes and dislikes
The sun still rises and sets
The moon still waxes and wanes
The tides still ebb and flow
One day I was born
And one day I will die.

So I fell on my sword
It wasn’t entirely her fault anyway
even though we both laughed
during the planning

I don’t see the problem really
It’s not like we broke a Ming vase
It was a letterbox
And to be honest

That box was begging for it
All shiny and just big enough
To take a good size cracker
And a mozzie coil timer

Maybe the neighbours letterbox
Wasn’t the ideal choice, in hindsight 
Ah well,
No pocket money for a while I guess