Poetry

Rival

She places her feet down

with stubborn steps,

head on.

Cut, angled fringe, red eyes, ice lips.

Fingers curled, uncaring, in the waistband

on her hips.

Eagle grip.

 

I place my feet down

with weighted steps,

heavy lids,

creased, fluffy jumper, wet hair, dry lips.

Fire up as I catch sight of her with a match

to my manuscript.

Solar eclipse.

 

Mirror says,

take a step back.

Don’t give me that.

 

This is my war and I’ll wage it as I please.

Even if I’m the one

bringing me to my knees.

Poetry

Ce’Nedra

The vivid crimson locks crowning her head

speak only a fraction of the fire inside.

 

Small of stature, but tall and fierce

of will,

leaping onto the highest platforms to deliver her address.

 

All those waiting

wonder how this tiny being can hope to think

she can move the parade with only a few words.

 

Once she opens her mouth,

her voice soars,

thunderous compassion forcing their hearts to pound as one.

 

Their feet march without order,

the cause more true and just

than any they have heard before.

 

No longer a spoilt princess.

A leader, brighter than the sun.

Poetry

Imprint

I stand now in a green field,

greener than any around it.

I stand now in a mass grave,

more drenched in blood than any quiet churchyard.

 

Touching the soil, my fingers catch

on the lip of a twisted belt buckle,

and the last moments of its owner illuminate my shadow,

their pain becoming my own,

as if centuries have not passed

and we are twins,

sharing the same blood, the same heart.

 

Flowers around me.

Cornflowers, daisies, Lady’s bedstraw.

Bones around me.

Long trampled and hidden, only ghosting up

to those who bother looking.

 

The long grass stains my hands as I pull at the blades,

thinking only of how other blades

drew out crimson:

a stain that would never wash out.

Poetry

Battle of Monsters

You’ve seen them before,

noses pressed up against you,

moist breath on your skin.

One side is right. So is the other.

They ask you to be the judge as they battle it out.

Please stop, you ask.

Your voice doesn’t work.

The lawyers do. Settling the disputes.

Settling the money.

Now, young one:

who would you most like to live with?

Poetry

Tiny mite

Regarding Pip, the love-fruit dream of a bookish mind who haunts the dust speckles papering the bookcases – duck-egg pimples on the fingertips. It lurks, d r i f t i n g between SOLID TEXT and verse rising on inhales to nostrils intent on devouring must and ragged ink. Only to be sneezed out into the particle storm; sunlight is the only pair of spectacles strong enough to see them fight the plastic dinosaurs battling for shelf space on the brain.