Poetry

Workshop Adventures

The day has been full-on:

adventures and silliness,

words sandwiched between words

and tales twisted until every drop

of story has been strained out

and boiled back together.

Hard sweets bursting with flavour.

Smiles, giggles and notes running off the page,

finishing with inspiration not just

for the listeners,

but the speaker also.

Poetry

Role Play

Shuffling papers shakes up memories

into cinematic strips

that play on auto after every introduction.

Arranged this way,

how do we know they’re real anymore?

Morphed over time, nipped and tucked,

folded, welded, enshrined and entombed,

buried fast or brought forwards by warm words

from different perspectives.

We are made of stories.

We are stories.

Every Once Upon A Time

threaded into our minds through and through.

Poetry

Gripped

It’s in the touch that we can find ourselves,

find our solid state once more

and stop the wisps of identity

being sucked away.

 

Whether it’s a switch

flicked back and forth,

or the feel of a friend’s hand,

it can bring us back.

 

Yet what if you’re barred from doing so?

What if the search lights come on

and leach away your freedom?

What then?

 

Do we find another means,

or do we let

ourselves drift away, voices and thoughts

silenced forever?

Poetry

Wanting

You want to be a post for me to lean on,

an ear to whisper all secrets.

You want to be my walking guide,

and take me off the boring paths.

You want to be the person I always laugh with,

the person who will take my hand in dance.

You want to be the one to hold me,

ward away all my fears.

You want to be a wall of protection

against all my daily worries.

You want to always be in my life,

smile at me every day.

You want to make a pact,

words that hold true forever.

 

I want to accept those words,

and to be all those things for you.

Poetry

Chocolate Box

And the trees take their last breath

before the mountain gets its luminous dusting for another season.

Below, the village smarts itself up

for photos

taken by every confectioner around

to be stamped on tins and boxes, ready to be discarded

without thought once the consumers have gorged themselves into stupor.

Yet when the year turns,

the people make to sweep away their sluggishness

with good deeds.

The trees reappear, breathing deep, refreshed,

and watch.

And listen.

In the distance, they spot small groups coming together

to tidy and repair.

They hope.

Poetry

Worlds apart, but ever close

In mid-flight, I heard your call,

Never knowing it was you at all.

As I neared the tallest hills,

My eyes caught sight and I was stilled

In the being of you:

Trickling words, algorithms of many hues.

Days, weeks, hours all passed,

I finally know at last,

Wherever I go, you will be.

We are utterly each other’s key

To our future prime.

We’ve given up being blind.

Poetry

A letter to Dr Jekyll from Mr Hyde

Dear sir,

Your brains are addled, your thinking warped.

You doubt, you stumble, you question every thought.

I’m here to give you the push you need,

but use me wisely else you will not succeed.

You have a plan, every detail laid out,

yet you’re short of tools, there are none about.

Without the tools, your method is stuck

and all of you is saying you’re well out of luck.

It’s what you get for beingĀ distracted,

your guilt is well-deserved for how you’ve acted.

What you don’t understand, or perhaps you do –

is that nothing will ever progress when what’s stopping you

is you.

– Hyde

Poetry

Fire Dance

Around the corner I spot your flames,

little blue flickers, seeming tamed.

But should a whisper, snide and bold

from the tower whence they hold

the power to make all decisions

interfere with your mission

or threaten the one you hold dear,

I know you will instill them with mortal fear.

Your flames will rise up, acrid, molten

and in an instant completely engulf them.

I worry, not for their well being,

but its effect on you I’m seeing.

This radioactive surge you have

may drain you with its grab

and all I can do is hold out my hand,

and hope, hope

you’ll rise up, scar-less, from the spent ground.