Overwhelmed by the warmth of your welcome,
dancing embraced in your arms
and lifted by cider and catchy music,
I dared to give you a kiss.

It was just a brushing of your brow,
not presumptuous lips,
and then an apology on your hand
so as not to blight the bliss.

But you whirled away across the floor
and found somebody else,
leaving me stranded in outer space,
summarily dismissed.

It was only a gesture of tenderness
but maybe you misread it
as too familiar, going too far,
somehow something amiss.

I really wanted to see you again
and have a proper talk
so I'm writing this poem just to tell you
how much I regret that kiss.

Age no love's fool is lest it fret
for youth's infatuation yet
how reckless naïve passion thrills
where age's sad discretion kills.

Under the bridge in Trafalgar Street
right next to Brighton station
slogging uphill with someone to meet
I read on the pavement this slogan
sprayed in letters remarkably neat
but only on view to pedestrians:

'Help the homeless'

I remembered I'd seen one time before
a bloke lying there on the pavement,
a castaway washed up on shore
asking for change to get the payment
for a bed in a hostel or so he swore
though I rather doubt that was his intent.

Could the slogan itself be changed to say
much the same thing in a different way?

'Home the helpless'

First a miniature volcano

erupting from the earth;

then changed into  a scaly green

but blind reptilian snout,

it mouthed its open jaws to threaten

fiercely spewing forth -

not burning lava - flowers ! and

delicious clinging scent.

A winter miracle of nature,

potted hyacinth.

A la carte

Devoured too quickly and never intended
to fully satisfy verbal hunger,
short stories seem to be incidental -
just literature's hors d'oeuvres.

Novels provide more substantial fare;
consumed over days with interludes
for slow digestion and calm reflection
plus the added interest of prediction.

A poem is dessert.