Poetry

New Habits

They form over months, subtle and sneaky,

habits we’ve picked up by merging so sweetly.

 

Checking ingredients without a second thought,

carrying a full deck of cards just in case they’re sought.

 

Clothes cleaned and ironed for an overnight stay,

fried eggs swapped for part of the other’s breakfast: a good start to the day.

 

One bathing, one readying the bed,

one solving puzzles, one having just read.

 

Phone calls and messages each day we’re apart,

‘I love you’ said often but not so much that it loses its spark.

Poetry

Fishing Net

The barrage comes hard,

I’m forced down to the depths of my own emotions

every time we discuss it.

I’m caught in the rewind

while clawing up at the future, the now.

It will take years

to peel off every layer of doubt I’ve accumulated,

every word that the self-proclaimed judge and jury

have balanced on my shoulders.

But I can always look into your eyes.

My moonlight

in the starless night.

Poetry

Robin Redbreast

The robin, whose beak

wild berry juice does adorn,

flits about merrily on this morn.

 

His curious bright eyes,

black as obsidian,

observe all life in the garden.

 

Stray too close and he won’t stay.

Up, up, but not far away.

 

His sweet chirps still will sound;

watch for his vibrant red breast

as he dances merrily around.

Poetry

Occurrence

It’s midnight again and the clock is striking. It’s chiming, ding, ring, outside my door.

 

It’s midnight again and the colours are brightening. They’re painting, stroke, line, on the walls.

 

It’s midnight again and the shadows are evolving. They’re dancing, hop, leap, at the foot of my bed.

 

It’s midnight again and the ghosts are appearing. They’re singing, fa, la, by the window.

 

It’s midnight again and the whispers are growing. They’re chattering, snicker, bicker, by my head.

 

It’s past midnight now, and the house is quiet. Not a sound, breath, sniff, to be heard.

Poetry

The King’s Observations

The king sits at the edge of the road

dressed in beggar’s clothes

to behold all those who nearly ride him down

without a thought or care for his woes.

 

The king sits at the edge of the road

his finery all to be seen

and notes as his subjects come scurrying by

to ask how best he can be pleased.

 

Poetry

Return

It travels, fire-tongued

through each cell, alight and intense

up into the wilderness that is your eyes.

Its pure crystalline intent

pasted with letters and notes of our future,

a flash of keys,

a suitcase label,

manuscript pages littering the floor among

scribbled workings of code.

The data is transferred in a single,

pulse-racing moment

as our lips touch finally after so long apart.

Poetry

Sorting Hat

A name is simply a thing to be called. It doesn’t define you. Doesn’t own you. Doesn’t always fit. If you want, you can hide behind it. Be just a name, a name with no face. Be a mask, a separator of lives. One name for a close relationship, another for those that are distant. Barely associates. A name can change over time. It isn’t a static thing, once decided, there forever. It is fluid, changing as often, or little, as you like.