Poetry

Inner Working

Twelve keys lie on the ground, a thirteenth in my hand.

The doors, except one, have already been opened;

they spilt their knowledge over my skin.

A conclusion is not an answer, only the point at which we cease.

I could conclude here and now, and rest,

or use the thirteenth key and find the answer.

Is it really the answer I’m looking for,

or a way out of the answer altogether?

Why am I being asked what the answer is?

Because I’ve been told to find it.

That’s not a good enough reason for me.

Poetry

Witch hat?

Out of the ground it springs,

plump, spongy flesh with a wide brim

and pointed tip.

Or should I take the one over yonder, floating on the night black road

beaming silver and tangerine?

Perhaps the shining brass one, left behind by the marching band

complete with player’s spittle.

The daffodil’s trumpet, or the acorn’s cup,

the nightcap of the old magician.

No, no, no!

None of these are suitable for my hat.

Poetry

Mirror diary

But what if I want to make my own choices?

Briar Rose said

as the fairies offered to hide her in the woods

away from all spindles.

What if the kiss that wakes me if I do succumb

isn’t welcome on my lips?

What if I refuse

to acknowledge the curse at all?

What if I can control my fate

without magic

without fear

without giving in?

What if

my story is not how it’s told?

Poetry

The direction of melody

Sometimes a song catches in your head, going back and forth and around and around, like a wheel attached to a giant pendulum. It can lift you up, high enough to bring on fear but lose it at the same time, or it can bring you down, low enough to ground your feet for a moment and rest from the dizziness of the world. ¬†And sometimes it can leave you hovering in mid-air, giving you time to process everything up to that instant. That’s when you have the chance to choose: up, or down?

Poetry

Uncovered (draft)

Why should my  sensitivity

be a sign

of who I am?

 

Why

should I be measured by

the bruises I bear

from a night of unrest,

when all I asked for

was hospitality?

 

Why would you seek

to drug me

with pea-sized pills

and force me to climb

the innerspring tower,

when a simple question

would so easily give

rest to your doubts?

 

Don’t take my truths

as acceptance

of your hand.

 

If you had

seen me

first, I may have reconsidered.

 

The cover has been

removed from you, not me.

 

Your chance has been spoiled:

blind

desire has that effect.

You will

see.