Poetry

Platonic

Most of the time when we say

I love you

it’s directed at our spouse, our lover, our other half

but

what of all the other loves

that fill our hearts,

give us warmth, comfort, security?

What of the people

who make us feel like us,

who make us so at ease

that we couldn’t hide ourselves if we tried?

I think it’s time we

told them, too.

So here it is,

plain and simple, my friends:

I love you

 

Advertisements
Poetry

Glass Walls

You’re grinning at me

and I can tell it’s real because it reaches your eyes.

We’re working together so closely that we can touch,

lean against each other if we wanted.

And yet our lips have lost the ability to form words,

to speak the way we speak

freely

when we don’t have to hide,

don’t have to pretend

that the extent of our friendship

is a few words in passing.

A pane of glass would be less of a barrier,

at least it could be broken.

Poetry

Lazy Afternoon Rambles

As the week comes to a close

and our schedules open up

to be the holes that form notes

in a music box’s song,

 

I hold out my hand

so we can touch palm to palm.

 

It would be a waste

if we didn’t use this time to spark

 

off each other, mind to mind,

whether it takes a stroll in the mist

or an afternoon melting into the sofa

 

with words tumbling over each other

from the waterfalls that we call lips.

 

Stand with me, my friend,

and let us be.

Poetry

Compass needles

What good is looking in one direction

when life is happening all around you?

Trains speed past on the tracks outside your house;

coaches full of faces

with their own minds overlapped like a puzzle box.

 

Sometime all it takes is a ‘hello’

to gain the key,

others it is many greetings over years

until finally the last lock rots away.

 

One of my closest friends

is a boy I’ve worked with for two years,

but not until we paused to take in the whole sight

rather than our own narrow view

did we realise

how closely the pieces of our puzzles match.

Poetry

From bones it grows

The night is fading and you can taste morning in the air.

The vague shapes swallowed by the darkness

awaken again as the flowers begin to open.

Not skulking monsters as they sounded, shrieking,

without the light,

but the bones of buildings covered in green carpets,

rich and plush and full of a life that was once

cut back hard, considered a weed,

a pest, a threat to those who hoped to dwell.

Time’s mark is clearer than footprints

and has no patience

for those who refuse to see it.

It grasps them all with tight fingers,

pushing them aside so the first ones

to arrive at the waterhole can have their fill

and flourish

as they should have for all these years.

 

Poetry

Into the fog

The fog on the bathroom mirror covers my face,

coating it in a weariness I can normally only see inside.

Droplets run down;

tears I cannot shed.

My mouth is a watery line,

anxious and unsure of who I am.

 

Then you come in and open the window.

The glass clears as you lean against me,

easing my expression to a soft grin

as the warmth seeping from every inch of you

fills my heart.

Poetry

The Edge

The edge can be twisted,

it can be turned, rotated and up-ended,

spun around and spun well,

and yet

 

and yet

the face that you seek,

that ease of smile

and crinkle at the corner of their eyes

can still be on the furthest side.

 

But if you unfold the cube

instead of contorting it

the smiles and crinkles

will naturally rise.