Poetry

3am

It’s 3am and there’s a glow in the room –

or rather, there isn’t. Not tonight.

Tonight there are shadows, there are whispers,

hums through the house

bringing out the dust from the floorboards.

It’s the restlessness of emptiness,

the hours wondering when there will be movement,

when that glow will return

to lie beside you and sing slumber into your cells.

You wonder if you should catch it next time,

and propose it stay and watch over you

not for hours, but years

in return for you actively recharging

to hold back the dark.

Poetry

Visions

‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’

When you’re a creative,

full of ideas wider and richer

than the colour spectrum,

the question is always asked with curiosity and just a hint

of amusement, as if they know that somehow your dreams will be unattainable

even before listening

to what they are.

And then they will pretend, at first,

that they haven’t judged you.

They’ll smile and give an encouraging nod,

before injecting the poison

you thought your were immune to.

‘You won’t make any money doing that.’

As if dreams are valid only

if they make a jingle in your purse.

Doubt creeps in.

Are you sure that’s what you want to do?

It’s not worth anything. A waste of time.

A waste of you.

 

No.

 

No, you say,

reminded every day by other creatives

that doing what you love

is definitely worth something.

The fact that it puts a smile on your face

and makes your heart sing

is worth something.

You are worth something.

Maybe not in coin.

That can be attained in other ways,

part-time jobs to keep you fed and watered.

But to keep you alive,

to keep you you —

only listening to yourself will do that.

Claim yourself.

Say, ‘I am a writer.

I am a writer, and if the only person I write for is me,

then that is still fine.

I am a writer,

and I enjoy being me.’

Poetry

Feline Judgement

Her tail flicks as she saunters past,

nose aloft and green eyes

avoiding my gaze.

The delicate scent of catnip

I purposefully misted on her bedding

gets only a single sniff,

and the square fishy treats

no more than a cautionary lick.

I suppose that’s all I deserve,

having been away

for two whole days.

 

Poetry

H.U.Gs

We sell heaters for 99p. They’ll not oil filled, or gas fueled; not even blower heaters. They’re fleshy and warm: heart utilization generators. H.U.Gs for short. Most people walk straight past them, not trusting them to be efficient enough for their needs. So they sit there on the shelf, year in, year out, gathering dust. I thought I’d tidy them up today, display them a bit better. I sold two in twenty minutes. The buyers were the happiest customers I’ve ever seen.