Poetry, Uncategorized

Rooted escape

beads in my pocket, enchanted

as I steal away from the shouting, the swearing

down the road and into

the roots of the tower

that seals shut behind me

none of their spits follow me, nor

the scent of beer and sweat and piss and vomit

that has come to haunt

my waking hours

Poetry

A letter to Dr Jekyll from Mr Hyde

Dear sir,

Your brains are addled, your thinking warped.

You doubt, you stumble, you question every thought.

I’m here to give you the push you need,

but use me wisely else you will not succeed.

You have a plan, every detail laid out,

yet you’re short of tools, there are none about.

Without the tools, your method is stuck

and all of you is saying you’re well out of luck.

It’s what you get for being distracted,

your guilt is well-deserved for how you’ve acted.

What you don’t understand, or perhaps you do –

is that nothing will ever progress when what’s stopping you

is you.

– Hyde

Poetry

Paper Mate

Folded notes can flit about on the page,

bundling together to make a whole,

but the secrets will still be trapped inside.

Scaled, segmented.

 

The waves of your hands

swirl and eddy as you rush to conceal

the struggling words,

hushing them away forever.

 

But words are meant to be spoken.

Silken rivers of them, flowing

off the tongue like lava from a recent eruption.

 

The folded notes pulse, a heartbeat

that you long to ignore

because it’s your own,

but can’t ignore.

Because it’s your own.

 

One day it will all unfold on you.

Your life unravelled and examined

down to the faintest fingerprint

on the glass tumbler

you use every night to rinse your mouth.

 

Removing the aftertaste of bitterness

that has worn you down

inch by inch

over the sepia tones of your life.

 

The sepia that could have been lifted

by tending to that single bright rose

that you left to wilt

in the burning sun and stinging winds.

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

Vibrant wings

The butterfly beat

its wings lethargically as it rested

on the soil, cold winds turning

it into ice. Find a place, anywhere,

safe, to hibernate, it told itself.

Warm, secure, away from jaws

of those normally waiting to pluck

it from the sky.

That’s

how I came to have these wings

on my back. The butterfly found me,

and I accepted it.

Poetry

Mind the wallpaper

Every day I write a line on a sheet of paper,

and put it up on my wall.

They overlap,

white scales with tangles of black moss,

thick like fur and with plenty of space

between the layers

for dust and insects to collect,

just to let me know that clinging

on to old things

results in an unpleasant experience every time.

So if I can, I leave the lines alone –

there to look at in times of desperation

for inspiration

but never to be touched.

The lines aren’t pretty.

They aren’t ugly, either.

They’re simply of people and worlds and war;

not the kind of war with armies,

the kind where self fights self,

sometimes using small words for big problems

and giant words for little problems.

Because who can say when a problem

is big or little

when it lurks solely in the mind?

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?