Peeping Tom

A floral scent makes him pause

Beside the slightly ajar bathroom door.

He can feel a heat on his skin

That the warm hallway didn’t cause.

A sensation that he can’t ignore

Begins to radiate from within.

Silently, he turns to look inside.

The image of her water-soaked form

Meets his eagerly nervous eyes.

His calm expression does hide

Lustful feelings building like a storm,

Watching a slender leg rise

From the depths of bubble-filled water,

To be met with tantalising fingers

Rubbing the flesh with a lotion.

Standing in the shadows watching her

Hand move up her thigh and lingers

Between her legs with a devotion.

Head thrown back, open mouth,

A face contorted with pleasure,

Hips thrusting towards her palm.

A rippling wave from down south,

Body shaking for good measure,

No effort made to keep calm.

He takes a sudden breath, deep,

That he’d been holding inside

Alarmed, she looks towards the sound

And into the eyes of the peep.

With a smirk she opens her legs wide,

To let him know he’s been found.

Raising a finger to beckon him in,

Then moving it down, touching more,

Slowly picking up the pace.

Not quite believing his win,

He turns to close the bathroom door,

And clicks the lock into place.











I started as One

Individual, Lone, Singular

We met and became Two

Partners, Companions, Soulmates

Then our Two turned into Three




John Keating

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute.
We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.
And the human race is filled with passion.
And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life…
But poetry,
these are what we stay alive for!

To quote from Whitman,
“O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?”

That you are here – that life exists, and identity;
that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.

What will your verse be?

Dead Poets Society

Free to Write

He said to me “I’ll take all the credit for making you bitter and angry enough to write”

I replied that he was my main subject
Along with our little unborn baby
It’s so satisfying to be able to direct
My thoughts and feelings away
Whilst knowing that he will not read
Any of the things I’ve written
And I am completely free to proceed
Without the fear of being bitten
I told him I’m glad he doesn’t share
Any of his writings or poetry
As I couldn’t pretend that I don’t care
About anything he says about me

He said to me “I might make one actually. A blog. I can write poems about a really nice girl I know and others about this total nightmare, and you’ll be all ‘who’s this other person?’ But they’ll both be you”

Isn’t he just hilarious.
I think not.

My Shakespeare

Let me indulge you in a story of old, my dear
As you like it written on yellowing parchment
I’ll not budge an inch from my seat right here
Until my feathered quill and ink are both spent

My winter’s tale begins much the same as any other
Two kindred souls trying to seek the light of truth
Romeo and Juliet‘s passion had nothing on my lover
But the course of true love never did run smooth

All the world is a stage, and we surely acted
It started like the taming of the shrew
I was a wretched soul bruised, and he reacted
Measure for measure proving his love true

Speak low, if you speak love” he whispered
What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine
There are no words to describe what he delivered
We were our own comedy of errors, every line

The twelfth night of our engagement, doubt came
Painful jealousy at the mention of someone else
Demanding answers, getting “What’s in a name?
Before leaving I cried “There is no darkness but ignorance

Much ado about nothing has ripped us apart
And it was an eternity after our love’s labours lost
That no legacy so rich as honesty entered my heart
And oh what a fool honesty is, if losing him is the cost

Unable to cope without him anymore, I scream
One warm August eve, brought me back from hell
Like we were sharing a midsummer night’s dream
He returned to me finally, and all’s well that ends well