Poetry

They Crow

The dominant ones always puff out their chests

feathers on display

so you can’t help but notice

even though you never look directly at them.

Words pound into your eardrums

with more persistence than you can handle.

And all because they didn’t like that quiet was your ideal.

Poetry

Trickster Timing

It’s a strange thing, time.

Hours can feel like days

when you have something to look forward to,

someone to go home to,

to hold, to cherish.

 

When you’re with them, days

pass like minutes,

heartbeats of a hummingbird,

rolling the week along

so that once more you have to part.

 

Time, that careful trickster,

changes again,

making every second drag,

as if taking extra delight in the stab wounds

separation

causes you.

Poetry

Space Hopper

If I had seven league boots,

I’d travel up to the stars.

 

If I had three point five league boots,

I’d travel to the highest mountains.

 

If I had one league boots,

I’d travel to every lush space I could find.

 

I am barefoot.

 

I can travel only until I get tired.

But there’s nothing to stop me believing

 

I have seven league boots.

Poetry

Society

Sometimes I’m amazed at how kind complete strangers can be, even if it’s just a simple gesture – stopping to let me cross the road at a busy time.

Occasionally, it makes me forget that just because I can’t always see the shade, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Crash. The day is hazed as it all leaks back to the forefront again. An article about the state of animals transported abroad.

It makes me choke. So much cruelty. So much ignorance. So much death.

Enter news of wars and children killed in a mass of explosions all because grown-ups can’t shake hands.

Tidal waves within me, and I feel powerless and angry.

Yet despite all this, the great hive still buzzes. Even for me, hiding that data in code for the sake of living.

Poetry

Mind River

It trickles through my veins, pouring

across synapses, moonlight swirled

with mother of pearl

that pools in the corners of my eyes.

Here, in my hand, goading my muscles

to grasp the pen and shape the smoke

with definite, crisp strokes before

those snippet thoughts think to flee.

Poetry

On making good art

It lets me examine it

smoothing my hands along its contours

gazing into each space, searching those pocket spaces

for wisps of goodness

where I can spend time being myself.

 

Sometimes

it shows me my mistakes

sometimes

I can see future pictures of wells

where I jump into the unknown.

 

If I walk past it in the morning

I see one thing.

If I walk past it a minute later,

I see another.

 

If I stumble to down to my hands and knees,

not looking at it directly but from the corner of my eye

I can see every part of it, pixel fine.

Or nothing at all.

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.