Poetry

Here is a picture

Here is a picture I painted. I did it

for you. In one corner

you can see the roses I gave you

on our first date. On the other side

there is the park where we took our first stroll.

Yes, I even included

the gravestones – I knew you’d like them.

And in the distance your foot,

just visible behind the tree

where I hid you.

Poetry

Images from Fern Gulley

My handprints are leaves decorating the walls. Joining the cave painting that has told our tale for generations. We’ve seen the single seed that holds all the magic of life grow to adulthood, and we’ve sown many more like it. Now I have my own to grow, but the trees without heads are overwhelming. I don’t know what to do. How can one seed work, even awash with the blue light of our people? I watch as you carve your initials into the bark. Can’t you feel its pain?

Poetry

Water Nymph

Sometimes I think I’m water.

Well, technically a substantial portion of me is,

but I’m talking about,

you know,

free flowing water.

The kind that freezes when it’s cold,

or pools in shallow dips when it rains,

hangs around in the air

to fluff up

that girl’s neatly straightened hair.

Except it isn’t my form that changes.

It’s my mood,

my entire attitude

to life.

I’m not complaining, just

observing really.

Once I thought it’d be good to be fire.

Then the wind caught my candle

and blew it out.

Poetry

Fairy dance

Do you remember the dancing fairies

from Fantasia? 

The ice skating ones, who carve all those lacy designs

on the pond with their toes?

Yes, those ones. Think we could ever

do something like that? Map out our life

on frozen water?

Maybe not on frozen water.

Why not?

Because it’s so still, but life never is.

Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.

Well, now you have.

 

Poetry

Second star

Like fairy dust on my skin,

your words are enough to always lift

me up.

Even when I’m down,

sunk to the bottom of the ocean

by Captain Hook

in his vain attempt to distract

himself from time

ticking,

ticking

away, like the strength of muscle and bone

as age sets in.

But he forgets he is in Neverland,

where time is endless.

So are we,

if we stay hand in hand.

Poetry

Take a gander into the cup

See how they pool at the bottom,

writing out their sights so clearly,

leaf by leaf?

Only the finest china is used for this,

my student.

And you must brew it for exactly three minutes,

no more, no less.

Drain it fully,

the dregs will appear.

Tut, tut,

do not compare this fine art

to a charlatan’s crystal ball reading.

And no,

that is not a wonky cross.

Poetry

Orange tongues

Fire. A blaze in my hands that I can craft into any shape I wish. It is my passion, my flame to share. You may call me arrogant. You may call me rash. I don’t care. Of course I don’t. I can wrap my fiery rope around you and change your opinion with little more than an ember of my will. Just give me the fuel.

Poetry

Hooping

I step inside the circle,

raise it above my head

feeling the muscles of my shoulders and upper

arms. I can turn

clockwise

or anticlockwise,

connect it with my hips,

my back, my legs, my chest.

My heart. And

my mind.

It stops a moment after I stop,

lingering for just that fraction longer

as if posing the question ‘Shall I

go on?’