Poetry, Uncategorized

It’s all a game

Round you go,

upside down,

ducking under,

swaying aside.

 

Questions dodged

like an intense game of squash

except the rules have changed.

 

Step to,

dance across,

turn a bend,

walk away.

 

You have never changed.

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Poetry

Bird watching

The birds feed from my open palms.

Sometimes they land on my head and pull

cheekily

at my hair or

search for worms in the creases of my dress.

Cars bleating along the highway

scare them away, but they always come back.

The police sirens are the worst, five or six in a row

at times.

You’d think

with so many about,

that one of them would have found me by now.

I hope they do soon

while there’s still something left of me

to find.

Poetry

The money pit

there’s a hole in the ceiling to display the stars

it matches the pane-less windows

and the vacant stairs

the bare pipes of the sink

and the door without a handle or lock

which leads out into day and night

and leads in

to home.

Poetry

Dedications

For my missing sock; the remaining one will never forget you.

To the monster in the attic who always made me run to the bathroom.

In memory of all the balloons I’ve accidentally let go of.

For the secret agents who secretly cheer me on.

To the elderly gentleman who waves his walking stick at me everyday. What a friendly guy!

Poetry

Fancy words for little things

We can’t simply stand around

quoting the words of long-dead playwrights

whenever our lovers’ embrace crumples

under the weight of our hesitation.

I want to speak in my own tongues,

not someone else’s. How can their thoughts

be true to what I wish to convey?

Your muchness matches my muchness.

And I hope it will

forever.

Poetry

The fee for crossing

The oil paint stains his fingers.

Thick, congealed blood

two different shades of green.

One

for the tree,

one

for the reflection of the tree

on the wavering lake. Just

where that photograph of me

was taken.

It’s too dark to see me now,

but if you felt

around the pine needles,

you’d find cool metal coins,

two of them,

which I’d promised

to balance on my eyelids.

Poetry

Bees

We spent the night together.

No doing, just being.

Sometimes it’s nice to just be.

Bee in a bonnet – it feels

like that, except there’s never a way

to release the busy buzzing scouts.

They nest at the edges of my vision,

perpetually reminding me

of all the little things

that eat away at my nerves.

They quiet when I’m with you.