Ken's Poetry

Were There Not Times

It’s hard to like someone,
love them a little then let go:
perhaps he knew this all along
and learned to hide from all the pain.
Were there not times? A lingering eye,
a glance too long, a twinkling smile,
to which he turned his back?

Has he not brushed in accidental joy
a tingling hand, and felt the glow
and known had he returned the touch
there was a will to hold and flow
and even feel the vibrant heat
between their bodies where they brushed
and tremblingly the nearness seek?

Were there not times he could have spoke,
joined in her smile acceptingly,
learned to laugh and learned to run
where he had never turned his feet,
held her close and felt her heart
whisperingly in soft caress
to steal a fleeting happiness?