Stuart Miller-Osborne

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

Fresh from the sea Still damp A future conversation piece Riddled with worm holes Its inhabitants long drowned Jane and I are sitting On a wooden bench Eating cheese and lettuce sandwiches The light although bright is fading As the cool sea breezes Begin to confuse In a few short weeks The air will fill…

The Sea Glass was wrecked off of Aztec Beach but there was no trace of the three man crew From my house on the hill I could make out the now beached Sea Glass lying on the flat sandy beach The police had cordoned off the wreck and I could see their tapes blowing in…