VII blocked

Sometimes there's just an echo hollowed out.
A shadow of a shadow of itself.
And all the words you've ever thought about,
Are already in books upon your shelf.
Your smile is as tired as its face,
The rest of you's the bluest sort of blue,
Just cold and tired and every out of place,
Quite out of time, and out of patience too.
You've waisted half the night with the TV
Watching too many couples getting wooed,
You've had a few too many cups of tea,
The chocolate cake's not sex, it's barely food.
    You're out of lines with which you can complain,
     So now revise, and listen to the rain.

VI shot

Cupid draws back his bow, you hear a twang,
A fluttering, like bright air full of doves,
You feel the most delightful sort of pang,
Oh, sweeping sweet relief, you are in love!
A thousand crimsons bloom from out the wound,
Like a ripe rose that overwhelms you quite,
You smell the heady blossoms morn to noon,
Dreaming through days and dancing through your nights.
Time marches on, you start to feel a twinge,
A pain that slowly spreads throughout your chest
As if something is lodged between your ribs,
It stings and aches by turns to great unrest.
    You wonder what on earth you have forgot,
    And that's how you remember you've been shot.

V

They say that love's a true mark ever fixed,
Unchanging though the earth and stars may swerve
Into new orbits, should all matter mix,
Alter love won't, possessed of iron nerve.
Through transmutations of the home and tastes,
Though land and borders be unrecognized,
We'll pass the times of large or shrinking waists,
So what if flesh is fickle, we've no lies.
True, fashions never hold from month to year,
(In any rainment dear you look sublime,)
I'm by your side and I'll remain right here,
We'll be united through the end of time.
      Some hearts don't alter, beating two by two,
      That's how I'll always love you Dr Who.

     

IV skin

There are so many synonyms for skin,
Like coating, crust, integument, and case.
Film, hide, pelt, rind, I shudder to be in,
And little better bark or carapace.
This epidermis bearing wind and rain,
And depredations of the make-up brush,
The kiss of sun, the salt of sweat and pain,
Deserves some words that sound a bit more lush.
It runs the rounds from hull to slim parchment,
Or cutis, dermis, peel, surface and rind,
It's thick as stone, or thin as filament,
It breathes in touch, vibration, sense refined.
Though now aglow beneath your fingertips,
It's just illuminated toes to lips.

III moving out

Please take down all your records from the shelf,
Your pictures too, your books strewn on the floor,
Those shirts as well, go fold them up yourself,
I don't want to look at them anymore.
I've cleaned out every room except this one,
The kitchen's clear of every shard of plate,
I've swept the floor, I've scrubbed the sink, it's done.
The rest of these things really cannot wait.
Now take those odd socks paired with my singles,
Now take your scent from out of clothes and sheets,
That tone of voice that gave me such tingles,
Your morning hair, the smirk, now it's complete.
Yes, even take the night we wrecked the bed.
I don't want them, these things, inside my head.

II paper bags

Dear customer, just take the paper bag.
Your preference begs a simple "yes" or "no".
Not info on philosophies you have,
Or judgement when you take your books to-go.
How far you have to walk bears ponderance,
And so you tell me all about your day,
How much you have to carry, and from whence,
For should you 'pack it' what would people say?
The growing line behind you does not care,
I promise you your choices are not viewed
With scorn and censure, no, you will not bear,
Your stance on Nature being misconstrued.
You act as though you've slain a woodland elf,
You feel thus strongly? Carry them yourself.

I.....it begins.....

I

Quite tedious, to some unconscionable,
I do not know why I like sonnets so
Constant, counting tens each syllable,
The iambic can bring my wits quite low.
Perhaps, it is that very steady drone,
So close to my dull heart, a welcome guest
The patient counting of a metronome,
As if the poem and I pressed chest to chest
Could now lie coupled in this single bed,
The words and I, in moonlight buried deep,
The form in graceful lines breathes by my head,
A ghostly partner lulling me to sleep.
It helps to share the night hours with a poem,
The page gets filled, I don't wake up alone.