A needle, pen or life itself have points
To sew, to write, to beautify or haunt.
Our hands and minds, creative in intent
Give our lives their point, their way. their bent.

The long hands of the clock to numbers guide
The fingers on the the gun this life deride.
The hand of fate without our will can point
The demons in the dream may rudely taunt.

Our lips may tighten when we are enraged
When others in our lives direct our page
Our words are stuck, we cannot let them out
So we never learn the truth ” about”

Fingers pull the trigger,use the switch
The world destroyed in pointless rhetoric

For so long you loved and imitated me

Then we were students at the university

Without you, I won’t feel like anyone

To whom shall I turn when you are gone?

When you’re the one who shared my infant bed

When you’re the one who treasured what I said

When you’re the one I soothed in the dark night

When you are gone there can be no more light

When the moment comes,I must believe

For trees shall weep their leaves as if bereaved

Then will my sister heart with sadness heave.

Oh do not do not ,do not ,do not leave

Do not leave me for the desolate grave.
Do not leave me here when you are gone
Do not leave me to whom love you gave
Do not leave me

My tender arms, I stroke and gently bathe
To soothe my mind , when near me there is none.
Do not leave me for the desolate grave
Do not leave me

For our humorous love ,I ever crave
A founding ground we have built upon
Do not leave me to whom love you gave
Do not leave me

A sorrow deep convulses like a wave
Washes me of hope, of memories done
Yet do not leave me for the desolate grave.
Do not leave me

I love not the charisma of men suave
I loved your voice and all the loving done
Never leave me to whom love you gave
Never leave me.

In my heart, your name shall be engraved
In my mind, you circle like the sun
Do not leave me for your desolate grave
Do not leave me for death’s dark embrace~
Do not leave me

Old man,bending over,
arched like a fallen moon
in a dark lilac November sky.
joy and pain wrestle my heart across the emptiness
and toss it up like a damp rocket
to fall in a hidden corner where mice live.
Would that not be a good ending,to be dust
to these little creatures nesting
in my chewed green twine and my tartan basket?
They have eyes and shiver in my hand when I rescue them
from the cat…
as any heart might.
Now night falls on the newspaper basket
where the damp Times and the Guardian mix into glue
and tomorrow the sun will rise
and it will just be the garbage
with no poetic undertones nor deathly hushes..
Heather and a silver light
you stand on a hill top like a god
looking over his domain.
Strong and now weak
it’s the humane condition
Everlasting life is too dangerous for humans.
Silent,motionless,home of beetles
bit by bit we fall away
into the mother soil
with cracked jugs and dropped coins
for a future academic to dig into.
Transparent hand touches me.
Whose might it be

https://www.bigissue.com/culture/books/top-5-books-write-poetry-deborah-alma/

Wordsworth’s poem is delivered by a strong speaker, but not a very intimate one by our standards. Contemporary poetry, and the poetry of twentieth-century America, shifted the footing of much poetry to the conversational and the highly mobile speech register of one ordinary person speaking confidentially to another. Here is the opening to Eleanor Lerman’s poem “Ode to Joy”: Four drinks after nine o’