Stuart Miller-Osborne

Ragged I am a traveller I came here With hundreds of others To see Sigiriya Since all the others Chose to write poems I chose not to do so As I am not a poet

I listened to the message given by her A bee who has seen the full-blown lotuses She bewildered this heart of mine I was consoled without measure

What do you call an inkwell without ink R What do you a pen without words R What do you call a life not lived R

My mom desig ce olde ceramics Inloved on wete dayes Shee keps them im jarz

Although I came from nothing I now control a major company And am still travelling upwards Miss Patterson was the teacher Who pushed me and pushed me To achieve what I have achieved But this came at a price As she had an immoral eye And regretted nothing

I was waiting for the London Train It was running almost an hour late My children Maye and Lion Were playing snakes and ladders In the shadows of the afternoon The lovers dreading their parting Were looking into each others eyes

Long after you had left me I could smell your perfumes In my restricted cell This brought me a comfort That I had never experienced You are my violet spring

Will appear as the morning fades My nameless companion Is planning to meet me on the ancient tower She has decided to wear Her white and olive dress

I am pausing for breath as our room is very humid She is the cousin of my business partner Who insisted on visiting the consulate with me At present she is reading my latest book The Great Witness on a sparse wooden chair Sweat trails are still glistening On her exposed shoulders

Blind voices in markets Sound blurred even on wet days Muffled heavy and totally unclear This is not a performance poem