While I could say
That the sweetest sound
I long for
Is the voice of the one I love
Or the sound of my sister's feet
Sliding down the steps
Or my parent's wisdom,
The one I love the most right now
Is the lovely intonation
Of boiling water ready for tea

(Sorry, no Halloween themed poems for you! the Muse is not in such a mood.)

When Did I Grow Up?

When did I grow up?
When did I cease
To be a child?
When did I grow up?
When did I head out
Into the wild?

When did I grow up?
When did I start
To face my fears?
When did I grow up?
When did I learn
To hide my tears?

A poem to chase the tears away.
A poem to bring the smiles around.
A poem to start the break of day.
A poem to send the sadness down.

I need one of those;
I want one of those.
I shall wander through Psalms,
Burrow through all I know
Until I find that rainbow
That follows the tears of parting.

The leaves are leaving,
Fluttering to the ground
To lie like limpid shapes
On the damp ground.

There's a statisfying sound
When they're kicked up
And they rustle and cling
To your shoes for a mite.

Pick up the dry pretty ones
And stick them under or in
A heavy book to press them.
Hurry, before the leaves leave.

Aches and pains
From dancing
And bowling.

Ah,
But it was
A wonderful weekend,
Though it made
Me miss my friends.

Good thing
That soon I can
Return home
And eat frozen
Cake saved for me.

Happy Birthday to my sister,
The one I love so well,
Happy Birthday to my sister,
Of her joys I hope to tell.

Her sweet and winning smile,
Her humor oh so brash,
Sister turned eighteen today
She growing up quite fast.

I'm going to make
Songs about being alone
My theme songs now.

Look at my face.
Regarde mon visage.
Amst I bovvered forsooth?
Face bothered?
Bothered face?
I ain't even bovvered.

Jimmy cracks corn
And I don't give a damn
Because my tea's getting cold
And I'm out of chocolate.

My stream of consciousness
Is less awesome
Than T.S. Elliot's.
He must've had more tea
And better angst.

Teacup

There is such sadness
At the bottom
Of a teacup.

How empty
The vessel is,
Devoid of liquid joy.

Cold and Sad

The wind,
cold and sad,
longs for us,
reaches for us
with naught but love
and his chilling fingers.
How he years
to tickle them
through our hair,
across our eyes,
around our souls.
The wind,
Cold and sad,
Can merely wish
For what joys
We mortal lovers forget.

They gasp
As she turns
Her head from side
To side
To show her scars
And they marvel
At the ruined beauty
And pledge more support.
She smiles
Like a woman
Daring to hope again
For the first time.
They applaud her bravery
So she blushes.

Once show and tell is done
Her boss thanks her
And she goes home
To her modest flat
And washes off the make-up
So the scars the crowd loves
Flow down the sink
And her real ones show.
'Cause the real ones
Were never pretty enough
To earn pity.

No stars.
I pull aside the curtain
From my place on my bed.

All I wanted
Were stars.
Tiny orbs of light
Far away
Bring strange hope.
That's all I wanted.

But I can't even glimpse
The moon
For the reflected
Harsh glare
Of the streetlamps.

All I wanted
Was a star.