Why Can't I Leave? (Winner Commended Award Poetry d'Amour 2016)

Because she is beautiful, and I want to stay,

(tell me what mad spell has made you this way?)

Because her skin is dark

              and her lips are fine

Her hips are round

              and her arms divine.

Why can’t I leave? Why must I stay?

(What evil thoughts are making you this way?)

Her eyes are soft

            and her hair is free

Her legs go from here

            to eternity.

The dust just sinks

            at her feet so rare

And she moves like clouds

           in the evening air.

The birds fly past

            with their wings on fire

The night seems lost

            to my shy desire.

Why can’t I leave? Why must I stay?

Because I saw Rimi Rider on the street today.

I saw her move

            like a silent storm

Like a lazy snake

           in the jealous lawn

As the evening stood

           like a beggar’s hand

She swayed like air

           at the earth’s command.

And my evil eyes

          took my thoughts to song

And I wrote the words

         till the words seemed wrong

But her hips just swayed

          in the dusty night

So I wrote the words

         till the words seemed right.

Tell me what has made your heart this way?

(Because I saw Rimi Rider on the street today).

Picture Of A Woman (Winner Commended Award, KSP Poetry Awards 2015)

If I could paint a picture of a woman

I’d paint it all over the sky,

I’d make her eyes so stunning,

that grown men would cry.

I’d make her hips so rounded,

I’d make her hair so free

that every struggling artist

would say “come and paint for me!”

I’d make her legs so wicked

I’d make her lips so round,

that aeroplanes would panic

and fly without the sound.

I’d make her arms so silky,

her back a golden arch,

the military would whimper,

forgetting how to march.

The people would employ me,

a dollar for a peek,

saying “make this woman perfect,

she’s everything we seek.”

And I would paint with gusto,

and splash the colours true,

her lips like streaks of crimson,

her eyes like azure blue.

They’d pay me when I’d finished,

saying “do it once again,

we have to have her up there,

this perfect kind of femme.”

And I would go home lonely,

forgetting how to cry,

thinking “why was it so easy,

to paint her ‘cross the sky?

“My memory won’t falter,

my brushes they will keep,

I’ll go to bed so silent,

and paint her in my sleep.”

I'd Love To See You Naked

I’d love to see you naked,

your curvature of spine,

your face the work of painters

who’ve met with the divine.

Your art the hum of tremors

that shake this very earth,

your mouth a shock fantastic,

like Eden giving birth.

I’d love to see you naked,

and film you from the back,                                                               

and touch you like a vision

that’s had a heart attack.

Your neck a twisted forest,

your arms a lake supreme,

your legs like beams of summer,

your hair like silk serene.

I’d love to see you naked,

your skin like hidden veils,

I’d write you like an artist

who’d kiss you if he fails,

and sing you like a mountain,

and paint you like a dove,

and move you like some music,

composed in tragic love.                                              

I’d write you like a singer,

it wouldn’t take me long,

and you could be the dancer

enraptured by my song.

I’d love to see you naked,

my body rich and fair,

and I could write your poems

with you just standing there.