I write in the margins because I used to live there an oddity, an anomaly, a correction wasting valuable space on the page until the margins became too tight to breathe in too tight to survive in so I leaked into the rest of the page sharing my words with others finding friendship and love.
I write in the margins because the margins made me.
Thanks for taking time to read my poem. I hope you enjoyed. Why not take time to read some of my other pieces?
I remember how my hand fit into yours with welcoming ease and the warmth of your skin heated my tepid fingers as we walked along the beach
the North Sea was trembling with chilling intensity – as we skimmed stones plucked fresh from champagne-gold sand they wisped over waves their light friction warming the water and calming the sea
I told a joke about blushing lobsters and seaweed you laughed because it was so bad and the frame of your face lit up the dusky sky better than the distant hilltop fire beacons could ever hope to
I’m hoping this has all has gone to plan – that some years have passed – and our hands still fit each others that the message I buried in this bottle is not lost to the tide like so many other romances and we’re reading this in the spot where we sat and snuggled that night stargazing at the peach-kissed setting sun on the horizon
– because I know that I will love you forever.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem dedicated to my beautiful wife, Christine.
that thick cotton shirt shade of deep midnight with moon-silver thread glistening ethereal under streetlights wearing it felt celestial so I only wore it once for our first date drinks and pizza looking at each other over red gingham cloth and flickering candle wax dripping down an empty bottle of last week’s house wine conversation mostly answers to silent questions asked with eyes and the curve of nervous lips I tried to be a gentleman and pull out your chair as we were leaving the waiter saw it as an affront for which I apologised to show I was a gentleman and when we hugged goodbye I felt our cheeks touch both warm with wine and affection so when I see the same shirt folded neatly in your drawer close to the memory box and wedding album I catch a glimmer from the moon-silver thread that helped stitch our lives together I believe in magic.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem, dedicated to my beautiful wife.
Zero degrees C in the peak of midwinter we wrapped up warm in wool and polyester pulled on our boots thick with suede upper and gripping rubber soles primed and ready to walk the forest its floor frosted white glamourising the natural litter of fallen acorns and amber needles we held each others hand through our scandi grey gloves a) for support since I was clumsy and b) for love we looked out over the blank frozen fields and into the feeble glare of a weakened winter sun some chimneys breathed in the distance a sign of life going on while time stood still as we tightened our hands our minds raced to what the future would hold luckily for me I still get to hold you.
Thanks for reading. Thanks to freestocks on unsplash for use of the image.
A cornflower sky littered haphazardly with spluttering wispy pearls housing an effortless sun watched over us as we dangled and dropped twigs of beech, ash and elm into the dawdling waters below our knees planted porous on the sandstone bridge absorbing some of its history our eyes followed the branches ferrying along the river stroking and slapping against limestone and basalt we were quiet and thoughtful wondering where they’d end up wondering where we’d end up and although sometimes silence can be deafening on that day the silent moments we shared only spoke of our serenity with each other.
I pressed my heart to the ground Then my palms Then my ears And lay listening to the earth Feeling a shared rhythm It wasn’t a rapturous beat But a slow swaying pulse I was enchanted in that moment For a brief eternity Feeling close Feeling connected And the world was whispering words of love While holding my hand But the sun grew jealous So tore us apart With ferocious tears And hot spiteful breath.
The last thing the earth felt Was my palms turning to fists Pushing myself away.