Poetry

Homely House

Strolling side by side, all together;

a family of yours

is a family of mine.

Laughing at jokes outsiders wouldn’t get

even if they spent an hour listening.

Because we are from the same pit of clay,

just a year apart and

different blood in our veins.

The path we’re on we will always walk,

speaking our minds

and always comfortable with each other’s thoughts.

Poetry

Paper Mate

Folded notes can flit about on the page,

bundling together to make a whole,

but the secrets will still be trapped inside.

Scaled, segmented.

 

The waves of your hands

swirl and eddy as you rush to conceal

the struggling words,

hushing them away forever.

 

But words are meant to be spoken.

Silken rivers of them, flowing

off the tongue like lava from a recent eruption.

 

The folded notes pulse, a heartbeat

that you long to ignore

because it’s your own,

but can’t ignore.

Because it’s your own.

 

One day it will all unfold on you.

Your life unravelled and examined

down to the faintest fingerprint

on the glass tumbler

you use every night to rinse your mouth.

 

Removing the aftertaste of bitterness

that has worn you down

inch by inch

over the sepia tones of your life.

 

The sepia that could have been lifted

by tending to that single bright rose

that you left to wilt

in the burning sun and stinging winds.

Poetry

Endless Days

The wind loops around my hands

playfully

nudging me onward, carrying the scent

of unexplored forests, coastal paths and caverns,

endless fields of wheat and corn and barley, meadows

full of wild flowers, that,

if I’m honest, may just make me sneeze.

 

I can feel the peace rifling through my hair and gently resting

its soft palms against my face.

My heart beats in time with the swell of the sea,

the calls of the birds

and the leisurely flutter of butterflies completely unaware

of how much an impact their wing-beats make.

 

The scurrying of people doesn’t bother me here.

I am home,

I am home,

I am home.

Poetry

Groundskeeper

We live in a world where everything

is on display, a constant waving of flags

we don’t even realise we’re holding.

And in it, all I want to do

is move away, find a quiet,

cosy area

and have it as my own personal space.

 

There are times when I start to succeed

and fit it with neat trellis

full of climbing roses and honeysuckle,

vibrant and sweet

in a way that doesn’t overload my brain.

 

Yet, inevitably, it seems,

there is always someone who trips and falls,

flattening the entire thing –

or worse, those who come charging in deliberately

and smash it to pieces

so small and sharp

that I have to start again from scratch.

 

But even in times when I’m standing in this mess of debris,

I always welcome the gentle call of a friend

who knows they need not ask to come in because they have a key,

yet always do so anyway.

 

They take my hand,

tenderly, respectfully

and help me sweep the mess away.