Rolling chances

How do you weave a web

if you don’t have a corner to claim as your own?

 

How do you spin the spindle

if there is no wheel or thread to be found?

 

How do you sing a note

when your voice is too worn to be heard?

 

And when do you have a chance

to raise your hand

when the forest is already crowded?

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Nice Trip

I’ve been known to trip on air.

And not merely stumble,

but fall headfirst into

 

a tree, lamppost, grass, concrete.

 

Some times are more painful than others.

 

People tell me it’s lack of attention,

that my head

is so far in the clouds

I can’t see what’s right in front of me.

But I promise you,

it’s just air.

 

How can I avoid air?

 

Now don’t be silly, even if

I hold my breath,

it’ll still be around me.

 

My theory is a little different.

I think I get drunk

on the vibrancy in my head

and the earth gets jealous.

It believes it can never

live up

to such standards,

and so seeks to jog them

from my mind.

 

What it forgets

is that in order to think

such wonderful, impossible things,

I must first learn to appreciate

the real, the possible.

 

Otherwise, there is no foundation

for me to then sculpt with.

A Day with Rain

The earth drinks.

Gulping down the sweat of clouds

like a thirsty doe whose energy

has all but been spent rearing her fawns.

 

Gullies are overrun by rivers;

old newspapers float by,

tiny boats setting sail for new land.

 

Giant mushrooms are held by the statues waiting

for the bus to stop by.

shielding the stone faces from incessant drops.

 

 

Colours of life

Long have tapestries been woven to tell tales.

Thread expertly chosen to depict every detail,

dyes richly combined

to bring forth the imagery.

Clear, neat, refined.

 

Silvertongues have learnt to weave tapestries with words.

Audiences spend hours listening

in suspense, enthralled by the daring twists at play.

 

Poets do the same, but set down their words

so the tapestries may be admired time and time again.

 

When Silvertongues and poets gather,

such is the intensity

that the air fills with the colour of life.

Each a muse to the other,

they walk hand in hand,

bonded at last to oversee the ripples

they couldn’t help but create.

Earthquake

A thousand conversations in my ears,

snatches of words, flashes of colour

and the whole ground shaking.

 

My ground

is turning, thrown up and down

with no chance to recover

before the world is split in two

and my heartbeat

is both silent and rampant.

 

Unable to process what’s going on,

detachment takes hold

 

forcing breath into my lungs

and oxygen to my head.

 

I look up and see the sky.

Calm, blue and trimmed

with a neat green beard.

 

Ice flows forward to crash

against my ankles,

bringing with it the lull of evening.

 

The voices, now tired, begin to settle.

even as the roar continues.

 

Eventually

they take the leap and merge

with the shadows. Dark.

Tied with the night.

Path finder

You cradle the dragon against your chest,

shielding its sleeping form from the elements.

 

Walking proud

along sandy shores

that soak up your footprints

even as you make them.

 

Waves crash and swell,

music in its most natural fashion,

reaching

for the pull of your hand.

A friendly caress, an age old bond.

 

But it is not yet time to give in

and take its shelter,

Rocks must be overturned and mountains scaled.

 

The dragon already begins to stir

and it is still

far from home.

Chrono Surfers

1.

Morning shines on my eyelids,

and still your arms

are clasped around me.

The whole night, you didn’t

let go.

 

And the smile you give me is even brighter

than the evening before.

 

2.

In my dreams, you’re always present.

Mostly observing, there if I need you.

Yet a solid form none the less.

 

3.

I see your silhouette

on the horizon, glowing

with otherworldly light.

I laugh.

We have no need for pedestals.

We are who we are,

even more so when we’re together.

 

4.

We don’t compromise.

We ignite.

 

Not content with simply riding time’s waves,

but making them.

 

Set to our own rules,

no pathways blocked.

Things that stay

How do we rate our encounters?

What if we were given a stamp for each positive one,

a scar for each negative,

a freckle for those of no consequence?

 

Could we read each other’s lives that way?

Noting all the joy,

regarding all the hardships.

 

Would people want to be displayed like that?

Raw.

Open for discussion, ridicule,

pity, doubt

 

also

 

compassion,

love, trust

and empathy.

 

In a world where everyone wants to hide

while simultaneously

glued to social media

 

sometimes

 

noticing details of another

can build the strongest bonds.

 

Tied Up

Every plait

can be separated

out into the individual strands

that make it.

No matter how long they’ve been bonded for.

 

These strands can then go

on to make new bonds

or hang freely

to

catch

the sweetness of the air.

 

Growing stronger than vines,

lush as wild forests.

Why should they tame themselves

for the benefit of others –

small, preserved, squashed –

 

when they can fan out as they please,

dancing on light toes

throughout the day?

Sanity

A room of trampolines

Rainbow hair

Distant shouting carrying vows on the wind

Constant tickles

Endless laughter

Quotes and references we both get or both miss

A future as bright as your glowing skin