the man in the rainbow sweater (for my friend DH)

‘twas long ago when I met him
in the wilds of cyberspace
a lucky day for me
right time, right place

for behind the fearsome beard
hid the face of a gentle man
a humanitarian soul
he helps anyone he can

accepting of other cultures
delighting in far-off places
his mind & heart are open
to all people of all races

a generous guy –
with his time he’s not a miser
working through the night
to repair a synthesizer

he loves old tape recorders
mixing boards & amps
a child of sixties love
who danced his way through hippie camps

I’m proud to call him my friend
this cool dude with his rainbow sweater
though miles apart we’re joined
by the hope that that world will get better

copyright © 2017 KPM

dave

winter valentine

on cold nights
as in darkness they lay
before sleep arrives
snuggled together, they play

he teases her
for wanting the bed covers neat
as she jokes about the coldness
of his too-big feet

she cracks on his boxer shorts
with their pattern of gray plaid
he wonders how such a tiny thing
could let loose farts that smell so bad

each night soft giggles mingle
with her sleepy sighs
& sometimes he makes her laugh
til tears stream from her eyes

wind howling outside
sleet slapping the window pane
she curls against her lover
before she boards the night train

in the winter sky outdoors
a full moon shines high above
indoors, in bed, they cuddle
secure in each other’s love

copyright © 2017 KPM

winter-valentine

in the basement room

a sagging sofa lives in her basement room
& a soft bed where she listens to the thunder boom
first built by her father for the whole family
gifted to her as eldest child – she lives there happily

in this room her emotions she need not feign
as her deepest thoughts are allowed free rein
the thick walls obliterate the present
just perfect for this dreamy adolescent

her confidence is hard to win
thus not many are invited in
albums on the floor, books on the shelf
most days she’d rather be by herself

reading stories Kafkaesque
writing poems at her second-hand desk
sometimes she strokes the cinder block wall
brain blank, thinking nothing at all

so peaceful there, all on her own
embraced by bricks of rough grey stone
there the light has an astral quality
lending promise to possibility

copyright © 2017 KPM

in-the-basement-room