© 2019 • Anthony Hett • London, United Kingdom • All Rights Reserved

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Here are some poems ripped straight from my notebook (sort of):

When we were foxes

 

Night time creatures of habit,

we would waste our days indoors.

Occasionally braving the pre-dusk sunlight,

we would take lazy hikes

through the City we were shy to call home.

 

These days as scruffy, lame little foxes

will prove hard to better.

But we were too long

scrabbling at the bins for scraps,

you deserved more than this.

But it wasn't this.

I didn't need to kill fresh chickens to make you happy.

Simply make you feel beautiful and safe.

 

The only times I felt safe were

with your scent in my nostrils.

My face buried beneath your fur,

nestled tightly in your slender neck.

Here and nowhere else have I ever

felt calm and at peace.

 

For this fox is anything but at peace.

My bite matches my bark

and when barks became screams,

one too many times.

You limped from my side

into the paws of another fox,

that you hoped could make you happy

and offer you all the things

I could only ever have dreamt of.

 

Braver, stronger than I

he tended your wounds.

No longer lame,

you now walk upright and with purpose.

A bright Ruby Woo smile upon those dicky bow lips,

that I still long, so much to kiss.

 

©Anthony Hett (2013)

 


The best of you

 

More bodies than grass,

the setting sun making silhouettes of us all.

Bare flesh all around,

we ride easy, hand in hand,

looping the park on heavy clumsy bikes,

that wobble and weave over the pot holed ground.

As a final glimmer of the fading sunlight,

glints from your shades protected eyes,

BBQ garnished smoke hangs enticingly 

in the early evening air.

We think about returning home, 

but remember, there is no work tomorrow. 

 

©Anthony Hett (2012)


 


Strangers

 

It's already the afternoon

but we lie still and silent on the bed

in the hope that time will stop.

The weekend fades fast

but we will it never to end.

We are not ready for goodbye.

 

As the warm September day

floods in through the thin pastel curtains,

the light dances on the pale naked skin

that I ache to know as well as my own.

We are strangers and unknown to me

it seems that this is how it will always be. 

 

©Anthony Hett (2014)

 

 


Foreign Ocean / Fiery Skies


Pencil laid dreams

in watermelon skies.

Fingernail wipers

for smog screened eyes.

Hope longing, impatient bodies

swaying with the waves.

Leg to toe athletes twitch

in time with wagging tongues.

Grey haired memories

sit with mere glimpses of life,

as mettle ceaselessly chases

washed away water ways,

forged by long dead sailors

asleep in deep foreign oceans,

reflecting fiery evening skies.

©Anthony Hett (2010)