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

Night Lights

Snap! Go the fingers,

summoning a swirling, curving, whirling

mass of colour

around the feet well travelled.

 

Calloused hands link together

as the dance begins,

a lively jig of forest sprites, glow-worm bright

against the night.

 

The crickets sing, violin strokes,

The sighing breath of sparkling eyes

soars up towards the turning skies,

heart a thump, dervish motion,

drinking deep a blissful laugh.