Poetry

Ongoing Green

He stepped into the suit and it never left.

Carved its mark into his life,

coloured his hair, his words, his dreams.

And when the seams became unstitched,

he spent all his effort patching them over,

making the suit new for future eyes and old.

The passion keeps him going, he drinks in its hold.

Poetry

The Rubbish Sack

When you open the rubbish sack, what do you expect to see? The empty packets of last night’s tasteless dinner? A card from someone you once knew so well it was like having a twin? That unopened box of over-fragrant toiletries your cousin of a cousin of a cousin gifted you three Christmases ago?

Why are you looking in there anyway? In that black hole of discarded things? You’re searching for a key? Oh, what kind of key? …You don’t know? Then what good will it do even if you find one?

Don’t you try to drown me out with that bag of sprouting spuds.

Hey. Hey! HEY!

Poetry, Uncategorized

Mountain climbing

I can see the top of the stairs.

It doesn’t look far.

 

Just like a mountain doesn’t look that tall

until you stand

by its roots

gazing up at the sheer

enormity

of it, and all your hopes

skitter off along the horizon,

with barely a wave goodbye.

 

But I know I’m not facing a mountain.

I’m facing fifteen rectangular boxes

stacked vertically yet veering forwards

to create an upwards path.

 

Should I convince myself,

yet again,

that my wasted muscles will let me walk

to the top?

 

I don’t know.

 

Maybe I should just tackle

the stairs like a mountain –

my mountain –

and climb.

 

I think I could do that.

If I try.