Poetry

On making good art

It lets me examine it

smoothing my hands along its contours

gazing into each space, searching those pocket spaces

for wisps of goodness

where I can spend time being myself.

 

Sometimes

it shows me my mistakes

sometimes

I can see future pictures of wells

where I jump into the unknown.

 

If I walk past it in the morning

I see one thing.

If I walk past it a minute later,

I see another.

 

If I stumble to down to my hands and knees,

not looking at it directly but from the corner of my eye

I can see every part of it, pixel fine.

Or nothing at all.

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Poetry

Mirror diary

But what if I want to make my own choices?

Briar Rose said

as the fairies offered to hide her in the woods

away from all spindles.

What if the kiss that wakes me if I do succumb

isn’t welcome on my lips?

What if I refuse

to acknowledge the curse at all?

What if I can control my fate

without magic

without fear

without giving in?

What if

my story is not how it’s told?

Poetry

As the crow flies

Safe in the nest. Safe in the nest until

the feathers fall into pillows ready for stuffing.

Downy softness to lull the head to sleep.

It hops. It pecks. It hops again.

Cocks its head to the side

with a measured eye, seeking.

Dreamer land. Dreamer land on the horizon.

Caw Caw Caw.

Poetry

We’ve got mail

Would you like some tea

with that milk? You’d say slyly

regarding my pale cuppa,

resting your head idly against the bookcase

searching for the storms.

My mouth would twitch,

flicking between smile and frown.

The window always opened and closed

at that point, seemingly of

its own accord

and a stack of papers would flurry in

to land by our outstretched legs.

What do we have today, then?

You’d muse, lifting a sheet

to your face. Ah, of course;

Ghost Writers. Let’s help them

find their stories, shall we?

And with that, we’d begin.

 

Poetry

Little Moth Girl

Whose eyes look out from the page

two black dots

that carry so much more

than graphite or ink.

Flame red hair that makes her fellows flock to her

tugging, pulling on her ringlets

in place of flying into light.

Fluttering, her winged dress

blends with the coffee creams of her surroundings.

She is invisible to the untrained eye.

Poetry

Ink

It spills out through my veins

my corneas, fingernails,

bleeding from my nose

to splash the page I’m fixed to.

I don’t find it suffocating,

only cold. But

it warms every now and then

when the words demand it

for their dinner.

I like those times.

I like to feed them.

Poetry

Mind Games

When you think of a brain –

all those fleshy, pinkish

folds, a bit like the goo

from Ghost Busters 2 –

do you ever see the star map inside?

All those electric connections

zig-zagging their way

across the galaxy

(no, not the chocolate bar,

tempting as it is).

Can you feel each little jump

from synapse to synapse,

like Mario in invincible mode?

I don’t all the time. But

sometimes I do, and I wonder

if that star map is the same as mine,

or different.