Poetry

Self-Examination

You never know what you’ll find when you look inside.

Pull out your innards,

find the glow left behind by faulty wires

and burnt out circuit boards

replaced so many times you can no longer remember

what the original was like.

There may be a spark. A glint.

A cog

needing only slight encouragement

to fit back into the mechanism

and start time again.

 

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Poetry

The Thirsty Traveller

Once, I heard the trickle of a long forgotten stream

As I strolled along taking in the syrup of the noonday sun’s gleam.

My throat was dry, and so I stopped

To take a sip with cupped hands,

Realising too late that I’d been caught in black quicksand.

 

What fool was I

To have ventured without a careful glance?

Had I thought I was fair of fortune enough

To gamble with chance?

 

Some might now expect me to say I was saved

But sadly I must inform you that for me, a different end was paved.

Though my body soon disappeared underground

I now hover above the water

Guarding forever against any fools willing to clown around.

Poetry

Silken

A strand shines white,

a glimmer on the darkened street.

The moonlight has touched it,

but its fellows remain that rich brown

hanging down to your shoulders.

Each one a piece of your thoughts,

a ribbon tied fast to the building blocks

that make you.

Old strands gift their being to others,

and then leave.

Fresh beginnings grow in their stead.

Poetry

Writer’s pursuit

Where do writers get their ideas from?

All the world wants to know!

Do they sneak off to times gone

while we’re sleeping

and watch the goings on as a show?

 

Do they skip back and forth,

bartering in many different tongues?

Do they bundle old tales and morph them

into diverse, interlocking shapes

and hope the originals won’t see them hung?

 

Perhaps they come in dreams

drifting down rivers and across channels.

Do they filter onto pages in reams,

spider-fast ink overtaking the pores,

to at last become a slab of legible panels?

Poetry

Round about

The time we spend breaking things down,

Analysing until there’s nothing left to be found.

What’s it all for? What does it mean?

Simply a way to keep the slate wiped clean?

Or is it an impulse to tear each precious thing away,

To keep telling ourselves there’s no possible way?

I think, no matter the reason given,

We should look to the future for all that is hidden

And embrace the changes as they appear

Even when your limit is near

Because beyond that, a gem will shine:

A warm heart waiting for you this whole time.