Poetry

Onward we go

Green, the smell of pine

as we tread needles into the ground

on our stroll about the forest on the edge of the year.

The new can be seen from over the way,

only the trickle of an old river

keeping it separate now.

Yet in a few hours,

the trickle will stop,

and the seedlings of trees will shoot up into saplings

in a whoosh of  breath, colour

and cheer.

We will step together, hand in hand,

onto the fresh forest floor

ready to take in its delights and terrors

as one.

Poetry

My forehead is covered in stars

And they cover my eyes sometimes

so all I can see is the brightness they give off,

twinkling like polished, princess cut gems

only seen on T.V.

Before, my forehead

was perpetually covered in rain clouds,

black fluff that wouldn’t budge

no matter how many times I scrubbed my face raw.

Then I became friends with someone whose hair was covered

in gleeful fire demons,

his grin as swamping as theirs

but overjoyed, not menacing.

We talked. We rambled. We talked. We rambled.

And the fire demons latched onto my own hair

as finally we kissed,

running across my brow

to settle in their original forms,

usually only seen in the night sky.

Poetry

Close by

It’s in the subtle spark as you look at me,

the shadow of a grin,

unsure, nervous, hopeful.

When the group hugs goodbye,

and ours lasts just a fraction longer than everyone else’s.

Standing closer each day, unspoken,

but unable to go unnoticed

by either of us.

It’s in the reach of my hand

and the answering touch of yours.

It’s there when our fingers lock together.

Solid, at last.

 

 

Poetry

Story time. Discuss

The queen saw, pointing at,

while tears dripped

freely from her eyes.

 

They led her over

to him, helped her kneel

beside. As an afterthought,

 

piled leaves over his lower

half in an attempt

to preserve his modesty.

 

‘It’s over. It’s finally over.’

‘No. It’s just beginning.’

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.

Poetry

Orbit

My foot

pounds down on the road.

The impact charges up my leg,

vibrating muscle, fat and skin.

The other leg comes down

and the force pushes the ground to breaking;

it can’t even breathe.

 

The weight of will

wishing to beat it from my mind

is heavy.

 

I gasp.

I gulp.

I drink in the air

and the wind cries with me,

flying by my side.

 

My strong legs can’t go on forever.

Eventually, the track will loop on itself

and I’ll end up back

where it all began.

 

I can picture it now;

myself a spectator of myself.

Watching from the start,

cringing at the beginning,

then appreciating the work it took

to build the foundations

I have now.

 

I cannot run for eternity.

But planets don’t stand still, either.