Poetry

Bard Dance

We paste on our faces and squelch down our thoughts,

produce positive, can-do attitudes to adhere to the court.

Seething inside, maybe; overwhelmed, swamped under,

forever unable to give in to our thunder.

The days melt under the heat and converge into one,

a conjunction of swarming bees whose tasks are never done.

Bodies we are close too, silent they must be,

still encourage us with a gesture only we can see.

And after the hour-chains finally let us retire,

we crash under waves that we have perspired.

Poetry

Once more, the quest

The trees are thinning now.

You grab my hand as I make

to sweep a branch from our way,

breath held in, tight, coiled.

Easy, you say. Easy.

I want to be rash! I want to be bold!

I know you’re right.

We have to wait, wait

until the sun dies and the ground

weeps at its parting,

until the moon sharpens the tip of the pennants

snapping to in the breeze.

Then, only then, can we move.

If only time didn’t halt at your closeness.

Poetry

Our place

We walk down to the tree shaped like a chair,

years of training to get it just right.

Across the river is the fall

dripping from the woman’s mouth.

This is our spot, this strange location

where magic feels tangible in the air,

and everything is as green and lush

as in our dreams.

You tease and say it is a dream.

Oh, I know that.

I’ve known it for a long time, since you left.

But I still walk here with you.

Poetry

Two’s company

Let us chime together,

stepping forth into the hour

where all time stands still.

Our fingers can link, we will be grafted.

Your warmth radiating into me and

my warmth radiating into you.

Our lips may not touch,

but our minds will.

We can speak until the hour is up

or we can be silent.

Lack of words is not lack of companionship.

In that moment, we can be constant.

We can be us.

Poetry

Kivuli

What are shadows made of

when they look at you,

flickering in candlelight

or standing bold against

the rays of the sun?

Our silent companions

we forget are there.

Those who experience every part

of us, even the parts

we think no one can see.

Our constant. Our comrade.

Present, without judgement,

without thought.

 

We think.

Poetry

A pensive hound

Snug and warm,

a mass of fluffy black fur

to rest my head against;

my bright-eyed, wet-nosed mentor

lounging in the shade

behind discarded tins of fence paint.

 

A lolling tongue

hangs from her mouth

as she looks up at the sky,

watching a flock of birds ark and swoop,

they dip their wings to her

as they pass by.