Poetry

A little tale

Dark lets down its itching feet

to wriggle its toes in the springy grass.

It waves to Moon, who winks her encouragement,

and then it rushes down the hills to dance in the glades,

to leap onto roofs and chimney pots.

All night long, it can be seen merry making,

laughing with owls and chittering after bats,

but after so many hours of leaping about,

weariness rushes over it

and up to its bed it goes, dragging its feet back

under the orange sky.

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

Cloaked

The fog drifts down onto her shoulders.

I’ll cloak you.

I’ll shield you.

She crosses her arms, hugging herself.

Help you hide,

help you disappear.

Tears roll down to drip from her chin.

Wrap you up,

keep you safe.

She shivers and bows her head.

Comfort you,

ease your pain.

The fog envelops her completely.

I’ve got you now,

I am you, you are me.

 

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

Ushering footsteps

The darkness rides the waves of sweat

hidden deep under the layers

resting against your neck.

 

The building cold, a stir of breath,

the air tingles with impatience

while anxiety threatens the grievous theft.

 

A cold stone slab presents itself,

a shuffle of feet, tipping the balance

forward as the clock hits twelve.

 

Visions are strong in this line of work,

hands beckon from beneath

where the bodies quietly lurk.

 

Quiet now, quiet, they surely whisper

remember the promise you made

with your dying younger sister.

 

The darkness rides the waves of sweat

hidden deep under the layers

resting against your neck.

 

Poetry

A tale

With charcoal in one hand

and chalk in the other,

we mark out the fate of the world.

Dark melts into light

and light crashes into dark.

We trap it

with markings on great walls

of caves amidst the smoke

of carefully set bonfires.

Flames that can predict the future.

We see ourselves riding

on the backs of river dragons,

racing from the molten chase.

Poetry

Soiled Glass

The chugging of the engine wakes me;

I am tainted

with its fumes.

A blackened face

in a blackened mirror,

a copy made of carbon

filled with the discards of personality.

 

My doppelganger’s stupidity

faces me everyday,

always solid with the expression of the trapped.

 

Ironic, don’t you think?

 

If only I could roll it up

into little balls of doughy flesh

and pop them into my mouth one by one,

chewing and chewing until the juices

flow out

and I can use them to wipe away

the layers of coal-dusted

skin.