Poetry

Bog marching

It’s tar, covering my legs, arms, brain.

Clogged up like clockwork that’s been residing at the bottom of a pond for decades.

There are no eagles to pick me up once I’ve reached my destination, but no lava to threaten me as I pick my own path back home.

Time is meaningless and astounding.

I’m in it, not an outsider.

Tick.  Let me wake.

Tock. Let me run.

Poetry

Ghost image

I’ve been thinking,

time and time again,

about the way your face

imprints on me

like those things

with blunt metal pins

that you press into

and they take

the shape of your hand,

only changing if you choose

to erase it.

I can’t erase you.

You’re here with me

whether you like it

or not,

even though

we may never meet again.

Perhaps it’s just

that I don’t want to forget.

Perhaps it’s something more.

Poetry

Mind the wallpaper

Every day I write a line on a sheet of paper,

and put it up on my wall.

They overlap,

white scales with tangles of black moss,

thick like fur and with plenty of space

between the layers

for dust and insects to collect,

just to let me know that clinging

on to old things

results in an unpleasant experience every time.

So if I can, I leave the lines alone –

there to look at in times of desperation

for inspiration

but never to be touched.

The lines aren’t pretty.

They aren’t ugly, either.

They’re simply of people and worlds and war;

not the kind of war with armies,

the kind where self fights self,

sometimes using small words for big problems

and giant words for little problems.

Because who can say when a problem

is big or little

when it lurks solely in the mind?