Something Missing

Some people have something missing,
It's little gap,
In themselves.
Perhaps it is self doubt.
Are they of value?
Are they here for a reason?

And this doubt,
Creates a terrible gnawing inside.
That drives them to despair,
Or other desperate measures.
They cling to the edge of life,
With their knuckles whitening.

Mostly people fill this gap
With purpose.
A life of industry and usefulness.
Some fill it with acts of kindness.
Others with the care of partners and children.
They all see themselves reflected in their deeds,
And find their worth.

She trawls the internet looking for love.
And pours out her sadness to strangers,
Hoping to find acceptance and approval.
I look on hopelessly.
She isn't courageous enough,
To see the pattern of her folly,
And with each rejection,
Her gap increases.

Missing Someone

It is a little hollow feeling.
A small ache in the chest.
At its worst,
It is a hard tight knot,
At the remembrance,
Of the time you spent together.
You can think about them,
Their quirks and idiosyncrasies,
Their little mannerisms.
And inwardly smile,
Your heart warms and your ears are soothed,
By the sound of their name spoken aloud.
And the anticipation of reunion,
Is even better than the actual embrace,
Which feels like a homecoming.

Little infatuations

He described infatuations as one of the great pleasures of his life.
His were moments of alchemy.
Where two beings have a sudden and intense connection to each other.
I'm saying 'beings' because I think one,
May even become infatuated with a small furry animal,
But this tends to be one sided,
Much like infatuation with babies.
But sticking to adult infatuation,
I see it as like a small crush.
It doesn't have to be for a person of the opposite sex either.
Infatuations can be flirtations and sexually charged,
But they can also be mental attachments.
Their commonality is their level of intensity,
And their fleetingness.
If an infatuation starts to become passionate.
And of less fleeting duration.
If you really begin to miss the other,
To the point of physical and mental anguish.
Then watch out.
This is no longer infatuation.
This is heading towards love.
And who knows,
Even marriage.

Circumstance

Circumstance,
Somehow the stars had not formed that fortuitous constellation.
Trust was put into those jaded by disapointment.
So it did not happen.

It was not down to anything lacking,
In personality,
Other physical attributes,
Or qualities of character.
It was not that they were somehow,
Not deserving,
Or not tried hard enough.

It was merely a matter of chance,
That they had not had the opportunity,
To open themselves completely to that one person,
And have it reciprocated.

The Casual Affair

Why is it,
He cannot allow himself to love her?
To give his whole self,
Openly and honestly.

Yet he longs for her caress,
Her lithe body against his,
And her voice in his ear,
Soft and low.

She will give,
And give, to her very soul,
Yet he does not trust.
He is honest when he tells her,
That he cannot commit,
But she hopes he is lying.

For fear that he will be hurt,
He holds back,
And hurts them both.

She just didn't Love Him

She was surprised,
That she was not heartbroken.
She expected to feel sad,
That they had been torn apart.
She did not even miss him.

There had been good times.
And they had been together for a year.
And it was not that he had betrayed her,
And watched as she was beaten.
She was not bitter or vengeful,
Just confused.
She didn't care to ever see him again.

"Well, you just didn't love him,"  I said.

"I suppose I didn't, "  she replied.

Intimacy

Stay present with me as we negotiate,
The uneven path that is our intimacy.
Look into my eyes,
And tell me with those mirrors of your soul,
Your darkest secrets and most private desires.
Speak the words that speak your truth.
Listen for mine.
Read my gestures.
Keep the bond unbroken.
Do not stray into,
You own secret places.
But be with me,
Until the cacophony,
Of our everyday lives intrudes,
And we must again part.

The Daisies

The hill of feral daisies is in flower again,
I know they are a weed,
But beautiful in their bounty nonetheless.
They measure the Springtimes,
Since I met you.
Despite the fact that we have parted.
You, like the daises are part of me.
And when I see them,
It is that Summer,
All over again.
When I fresh-faced picked posies,
To fill my small rented cottage.

I remember,
How each year they slowly crept,
Out from their stronghold,
The travelling stock reserve,
And down the road like each seasons,
Grazing  cattle.
The cows and the cars,
Have spread them almost to town.

The other afternoon,
As I was driving home,
I saw a patch on my own road.
The daisies are moving closer to me.
So I shall have an annual reminder
Near at hand.

I know I love you because I miss you.

It is not what you do,
How you look,
What you feel like,
How good a lover you are.
How compatable we are.
Or the interests we share.
It isn't even your conversation.
Or your unique smell.
It is not because my friends say we make a good couple.
Or that I am lucky to be with you.
It is not because we made children together.
Have shared assets.
It is most definitely not to avoid loneliness.
Or that I have made my bed and must now sleep in it.

The fact is that I know I love you.
Because I am happier being with you,
Than being without you.
I think conversations to you when we are apart.
And in those quieter moments,
When I am not distracted by other thoughts or responsibilities.
I miss you.

Shades of Love

I believe in shades of love.
The lighter shades,
Are the love of nature, animals and humanity.
The pastel shades are love for your babies,
These grow to brighter colours as they mature and become themselves.
And become a little more muted as they gain independenc from you.
There are the passionate primary colours of attraction and new love.
That become more earthy and nature based as you make a life together.
There is the patchwork of friendships in varying depths and hues.

All these shades of colour nourish and enrich you.
Within this kaleidoscope you live.

Partnership

Despite our differences.
We remain attracted.
And interested.
Interested enough to bother quarrelling.
Not settling for less,
Than the best we can get from each other.
Yet at times communication breaks down.
Each falls into destructive patterns,
That lose sight of the precious gift,
Of  loving somebody.

Simone de Beauvoir

Simone and Jean-Paul,
What a pair,
Experiments in love,
Open relationships,
Personal freedom and rights,
But responsibility...
Where?

Well not to those third parties,
Broken hearted,
Or swinging from a rope.
Love is not an experiment,
It is the overwhelming need
to share your life, your dreams...
Your hopes.

To trust another human being,
And without fear,
Be yourself,
Them themselves.
And hold them....
Most dear.

And being with them is,
Infinitely better,
Than being without them.

Small Blessings

I recline in my sick bed and,
Tap, tap these keys.
This poem writes itself on my laptop screen.
In the kitchen, my husband,
Is scrubbing a pot.
I hear the sound of scourer on metal.
He has already fed us,
Organised the children and retired them to their beds.
The fire has been lit,
By him.
The house, like my heart is warming.
This rest is easy,
I don't feel his efforts,
As any weight of obligation.
He takes such care of me.
These are the small blessings,
Enjoyed by someone who is loved.