Poetry

The Light that is Dark

 

In the night when the moon is high,

light brightens pale pebbles.

A guide to home.

Yet knowing home is

not where you’re needed,

not where you’re wanted,

not where you are even allowed to exist,

why do you still try to return?

Do you believe he will listen,

that your voices can override hers?

I know you want to believe in him.

But he was the one who left you here.

Poetry

To question a parent (draft)

What would you do

if your son grew crooked?

With crooked thoughts

and crooked ways,

gnarled and twisted

as a malformed tree?

Would you recognise him

if his roots were swept away

by time, humble origins replaced

by woven finery, declaring to

all who might listen

that his reputation at

spiriting away prized objects

has earned him the name

he always sought?

A Master, yes.

A legend among thieves.

Would you ask him

to prove his tremendous skill?

Would you care?

Or could you simply take

him back, proud that he

accomplished all he wished?

Would you say, ‘My

Son is a man with

crooked thoughts and crooked ways,

yet never a body has he hurt.

With swift agility he takes

possessions, but they are only such.

My son, the Master Thief.

We may be different,

but I am okay with that.’

Poetry

Worn Shoes (draft)

Silver leaves fall

as the delicate slippers

pass, lightly tapping

through the long tunnel

bejeweled with diamond trees.

A shadow seeks

the fleeing twelve; invisible.

Gathering golden branches

and golden cups

to bring stone conclusion

before the blood majesty,

its weight weakens youthful

rows, but still does not

prevent the shoes

of evening grace

be danced through.