Poetry

That wobbling seed

I can hold your hand. I’m always here for you.

Yes, in your hour

of need

 

I’ll be watching

I’ll be waving

I’ll be waiting.

 

Let me take your hand, you know I’m here

always. For you.

That’s

 

the problem,┬áisn’t it?

You do know

it’s me

 

niggling

niggling

niggling

 

in your mind, casting those shadows

around you. Wait.

 

You think

I should be ashamed?

 

I’d say I’m rather proud of what I do.

You’d just take happiness

for granted

 

if I wasn’t here.

Poetry

The Number Games: May the odds be in your favour

I’m thinking of a number –

no, not that one –

it’s a bit more edgy,

higher too.

So four?

Not quite, try another.

Six then.

Oh, come on now, you

can do better than that.

I said edgy.

Fine, thirteen then.

No, no, no.

Half a triangle more like.

A triangle?

Is this even about numbers anymore?

No, not really,

but it kept you interested

for a while,

didn’t it?

Umm…

The answer was seven.

By the way.

Poetry

Ghost-touched

It travels up the cracks between floorboards like rot.

Fibres decaying more quickly that the feet

wearing them down can pick up on. The centre

bubbles and boils daily, vomiting forth rules

and regimes that make the smooth inner workings

catch in halting breaths. A solid foundation

now revealed to be wet sand, washed away

by the smallest hint of tide. Green, orange, red:

a progression of colours mirror the emotional response

of the gathering crowd. Someone offers a hand

but their fingers are blackened by frostbite.