When I said I don't want to be alone
That it's not enough just speaking on the phone
Somehow I felt your face in my hands,
I swear I heard your heart scream
to be touched.
Then when I said I was leaving tomorrow,
that I couldn't live one more day with this sorrow,
you softened your voice to a song
I swear I heard your soul scream
to be changed.
Out of reach and really out of touch,
The story of my life in one line,
It's not easy being the outsider,
No complaints though, the choice was mine.
It could have been so different
when the path I walked forked ahead
while the rest of the world
veered right, I was not so easily led.
I can't question those past decisions
what would the point be
like an ever increasing ripple in a pool
what I did comes back to haunt me.
When I Am Gone
As long as time is
As brief as life is
There's a point where
I'll always be
Where ever you are
Where ever I am
There's a place where
We'll always be
Though not yet love
your place is here
to be where we were
not where we'll be
To me the wind has always been an entity with personality and purpose.
To others it might seem aimless, blowing through trees, tossing the long grass.
I like the fact that I can mark its progress by the impact it makes as it flows,
I can feel the need for movement eddy around me while I watch it pass.
The wind has many facets, soft and warm on my face in Summer,
then howling wild and fierce under grey and lowering Winter skies.
My affinity to this element of freedom and power feels so clear,
it comforts me as it billows, frolics soars and flies.
I saw you once at the theatre,
I glimpsed you again in a club,
it might have been you on the Central line,
then one night you walked into my pub.
You were there in my local hostelry,
my refuge from the heaving throng,
almost close enough for me to touch,
designer shoes by Laboutin.
Kate MacDonald is a septuagenarian insomniac who says she is grateful for the extra time to play. In the last few months Kate decided it was time to put her fingers to the keyboard again and let someone other than herself read what she has delighted in creating. She feels that anyone who writes will understand what she means when she says “Sometimes an idea suddenly appears and the compulsion is so strong to run with it that it almost seems to write itself”