Poor David

November 25, 2018 at 9:32 pm (Poems) (, , )

She knew him as a photograph
A poster on the wall
She had a suitcase full of him
But never knew it all

She didn’t go to stadia
To squeal with all the rest
Because she quietly supposed
He always loved her best.

The magazines presented him
With silky hair and smile
That promised her the moon and back
And stayed there for a while.

Poor David was a superstar
Who sang to her alone
But never came down from the wall
To call his very own.

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Watermark

November 23, 2018 at 1:18 pm (Poems) (, , )

It’s funny how our lives will weave
a pattern which we can’t conceive
of when we try to plan a route
from A to B. So what’s afoot?
Relax your eyes and look again
and you will see another frame
existing but so nearly not
it’s hard to know the path it plots
but trust its steady head and heart
To guide your hand as you depart.

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