Poetry

Why gnomes wear diving helmets.

It was all going peacefully, life.

Or so the gnomes thought.

Then one day the gnome king announced

that gnomes were a fragile species,

and garden and ornamental, bearded and not,

should wear diving helmets for protection until further notice.

Gnome kind grumbled and groaned,

and some flatly refused to adapt their style –

why cover up their signature ruddy cheeks and bright caps that had remained unchanged throughout the ages?

Then the kids playing in the school field across the road

kicked their football too high,

which swiftly decapitated an unprotected gnome

in the final arc of its descent.

The other gnomes were sad, but it was a chance in…well, however many gnomes their were!

There was more probability that their paint would flake and smiles crack

before a tragedy like that would occur again.

But they didn’t account for the glorious sun,

which brought footballs raining down ten a day

leaving only those gnomes with helmets on

safe from the barrage.

 

Poetry

Untitled

Untitled, I am simply me

to walk around and sketch the day

as I please. Or that’s what you might expect

if you spy me from a distance,

the woman who can take her time doing this and that,

including moulding time itself into whatever shape she likes.

Underneath the glass, however,

I have a structure that demands I do something deemed as an achievement

each day, and my body won’t let me rest

nor will my mind,

and in those rare times when I beat it back

guilt wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes

until the enjoyment of whatever I’m doing for fun

turns dull and grey, as ash in my mouth.

Poetry

The Second Dawn

After the frost hardened the ground

rooting deep into its core

the body wept

 

it couldn’t foresee the warmth returning

to its heart to help bind it back together

and wind itself up to a regular thump

 

massaging out the creases and torn tissue

that forced it to shatter

 

summer came early that year

however

and surprised the body so completely

all it could do was keep on weeping

Poetry

Fragile chamber

Cold is the taste of your heart when it’s been locked up for too long.

Chisel it out, careful, careful

and throw it on the fire.

Don’t worry, it won’t burn.

Watch it thaw,

see the flame-hands nurse it back

squeezing out the poison haunting your veins.

Take it from them.

Firm grip now,

and push it back in place.

You’ll get used to it – it won’t always be heavy.

 

Poetry

Gripped

It’s in the touch that we can find ourselves,

find our solid state once more

and stop the wisps of identity

being sucked away.

 

Whether it’s a switch

flicked back and forth,

or the feel of a friend’s hand,

it can bring us back.

 

Yet what if you’re barred from doing so?

What if the search lights come on

and leach away your freedom?

What then?

 

Do we find another means,

or do we let

ourselves drift away, voices and thoughts

silenced forever?

Poetry, Uncategorized

Overture

Evening draws in,

the half-moon observes

your passage home.

Hours drip by heavy,

oil falling in water.

Unmixed, always a separate entity

to those wandering past.

Cigarette butts on the ground

avoiding the traps especially set

on waste bins.

The smell of energy drinks

left on the bus two seats down

marring the truest scent

of night.

Door unlocked, house is silent.

Signs of life everywhere

that need to be tidied before morning.

Before mourning.

Of what might have been.

Not of what is.

The aftertaste of what is

is natural,

no added sugar.

Poetry

Calcified

You find it on the hearth, a tiny thing,

still a flutter beneath the calcified outer.

The warmth inside has faded to a simple prickle

that decreases every moment.

 

How did it get there, who cast it aside

to continue on their life without it,

hoping to never feel the pain and uncertainty that love can bring,

while forgetting how their view of everything

becomes just that little bit brighter for it?

 

You cradle it, unwanted heart,

hold it close to your own so it can share your heat,

build up a rhythm to restore its strength.

 

You guide it until it can beat on its own

and then let it make its way

back to the world

where it can find that reason to glow again.

Poetry

Winded

Life can wind you even when you’re already struggling to breathe.

A sour taint that has you reaching for the super glue

to try and stick yourself back together,

though at first you hesitate, the thought that this is your fault

and not just something that’s been hiding in secret for a long time

waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike

staying your hand.

 

But the breath you’re seeking will return and fill your lungs to full capacity

with fresh, clean air

and not the toxic fumes you’ve been inhaling for so long.

Your beaten self will revive and flourish

in ways you never knew it could.

You just need time.