Poetry

The pleading of characters in my books

[From a book under edit]

I’m hidden under the print,

reaching, reaching

clawing for my right to show on the page

and not just in the channels of your brain.

Hints and likenesses are what I have,

yet I yearn to be presented as I am.

Clear a path for me, I’ll give the depth

you’re seeking, I promise.

 

[From a book currently being drafted]

Ah, but at least she already exists,

life laid out for her paragraph after paragraph.

What have I got after me?

The empty whiteness under the last sentence.

Hurry up, author, her story is done.

I’m the one you want to work with,

spend time with me and we’ll see where we go.

 

[From the author, weary from juggling]

That’s enough, I won’t have any arguments.

You’re both important, both of you will shine.

Her story isn’t done, there’s more of her I can show

regardless of our knowledge of where she’ll go.

And as for you, I’m doing the best I can.

I’m crafting out time and space for you to grow,

to ink away the white until you’re satisfied.

So let me carry on as I am and stop moaning.

I’ve got work to do, you know.

 

Poetry

The smallest touch

The air rushes past and I can see

the silhouette I’ve left in the gust.

Arms spread, in flight (if it were possible I could muster it)

reaching for the ripples that play about my fingers

as if I might grasp them and pull them in close

to feel their warmth and smell the journey they’ve taken

to get here.

After, I wonder

if they have met me before and that is why

the wind comforts me so.

Poetry

The Monster Inside

The monster inside is restless.

It’s been kicking around all day,

talking to itself and grumbling, never wanting to settle,

never wanting to stay calm or focused,

refusing point blank to relax in any way.

 

The monster inside is doing handstands.

Climbing the walls, the door, the frame!

One minute it wants to scream and shout,

the next give up and lie on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

Oh, how I wish it would end this game!

Poetry

Why gnomes wear diving helmets.

It was all going peacefully, life.

Or so the gnomes thought.

Then one day the gnome king announced

that gnomes were a fragile species,

and garden and ornamental, bearded and not,

should wear diving helmets for protection until further notice.

Gnome kind grumbled and groaned,

and some flatly refused to adapt their style –

why cover up their signature ruddy cheeks and bright caps that had remained unchanged throughout the ages?

Then the kids playing in the school field across the road

kicked their football too high,

which swiftly decapitated an unprotected gnome

in the final arc of its descent.

The other gnomes were sad, but it was a chance in…well, however many gnomes their were!

There was more probability that their paint would flake and smiles crack

before a tragedy like that would occur again.

But they didn’t account for the glorious sun,

which brought footballs raining down ten a day

leaving only those gnomes with helmets on

safe from the barrage.

 

Poetry

Spy

Dawn comes, crisp yet quiet.

Leaves stir on its breath and rise up to land on the window ledge,

locked tight

like the rest of the house.

A robin spies an insect on one of the leaves,

and flutters over to snatch it.

Its beady eyes meet large, pale ones

through the cold glass,

hungry and wild at seeing a creature move about so easily.

The robin is unconcerned, considering only

that its momentary distraction has now cost it its meal.

Poetry

Hermit crab

The day is warm on my face, so I emerge from my home

to track down supplies. It shouldn’t be too bad, I can enjoy the breeze

and how the sun trickles on my limbs.

Scuttling along, intending to be content.

Do I really need my shell?

There’s nothing to bruise my soft body here–

whoosh.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

What is that? Those startling things

all herded in groups or alone with noses in black mirrors?

They don’t even see me.

Feet stomping, arms swinging, brows furrowed.

Blind to a little crab trying to find food and appreciate the air.

Better be getting home, before they extinguish me with their ignorance.