Poetry

Hat Stand

‘What hat shall it be today?’

the woman asks herself as she eyes

up the stand, the helpful monitor beside her

flashing with images of the latest trends.

 

‘Shall it be one that paints me an object, a soulless statue

worth only my measurements? How about the even tempered

diplomat, with no passion of her own, no dreams of her own,

no meaning of her own? Maybe the career minded robot

would like to be displayed?’

 

She lists them all, but none of them match her today.

 

None of them ever matched her, she realises,

and begins to wonder why she has hats at all.

She doesn’t remember buying them.

Were they gifts? Or suggestions?

 

She assesses the weather outside: mild.

 

She decides. She won’t wear one,

to see how it feels to be herself.

Poetry

Return

It travels, fire-tongued

through each cell, alight and intense

up into the wilderness that is your eyes.

Its pure crystalline intent

pasted with letters and notes of our future,

a flash of keys,

a suitcase label,

manuscript pages littering the floor among

scribbled workings of code.

The data is transferred in a single,

pulse-racing moment

as our lips touch finally after so long apart.

Poetry

Round about

The time we spend breaking things down,

Analysing until there’s nothing left to be found.

What’s it all for? What does it mean?

Simply a way to keep the slate wiped clean?

Or is it an impulse to tear each precious thing away,

To keep telling ourselves there’s no possible way?

I think, no matter the reason given,

We should look to the future for all that is hidden

And embrace the changes as they appear

Even when your limit is near

Because beyond that, a gem will shine:

A warm heart waiting for you this whole time.

Poetry

Orienteering

Can we find our way

without following the carefully plotted routes of other people’s maps?

If our compass doesn’t point North,

but to somewhere else entirely?

 

If we take each step

hand in hand,

ignoring the suggestions fed to us from all sides

and being ourselves,

then our path may be as solid or fluid

as we like.

 

We won’t always have a destination.

But we’ll always have the journey.

Poetry

Chrono Surfers

1.

Morning shines on my eyelids,

and still your arms

are clasped around me.

The whole night, you didn’t

let go.

 

And the smile you give me is even brighter

than the evening before.

 

2.

In my dreams, you’re always present.

Mostly observing, there if I need you.

Yet a solid form none the less.

 

3.

I see your silhouette

on the horizon, glowing

with otherworldly light.

I laugh.

We have no need for pedestals.

We are who we are,

even more so when we’re together.

 

4.

We don’t compromise.

We ignite.

 

Not content with simply riding time’s waves,

but making them.

 

Set to our own rules,

no pathways blocked.

Poetry

A slap across the face

Struck like stone

hitting those sieving trays

You get at Legoland, hunting

For fool’s gold.

All gold is fool’s gold to me, the wish to claim

It just as childish as that game.

People get offended when you call them that.

Because no-one is allowed to be like that anymore.
 

Poetry

Sweet almond paste

You pop it into my mouth, expecting

me to savour the taste

as it melts on my tongue.

It’s pleasant, yes, but the sweetness

is just that little bit too sweet,

almost spoiling the rest.

 

The day you took those photographs,

you said I looked sweet.

Was I over sweet?

Your smile was never true after that,

as though suddenly you’d seen more

than you were hoping for

but were still left disappointed.

 

The paste in my mouth has completely

broken down now.

Just like my image of you.

Poetry

Here or there

We were, as always, running

down to the spring lake,

splashing in the clear water

and watching the drops

as if they were mirror glass

ready to tell us our fortunes.

You said you saw a figure

in blue

gliding across vast plains

on a hand-held sail

of cloth and wood.

You said you wished

you were that free.

I asked you how you were sure

that the figure was free.

If they were to see you

through a droplet of mirror-glass

splashing around as you do

would they not think

you were free, too?

Even though you claim you aren’t.

You had no answer,

but to turn to another

and try to see something there.

Poetry

Pictures on the Hearth (draft)

Of glass slippers

and long carriage rides:

dreams are made

of soot.

 

But who shall

seek the owner

of the gleaming crystal’s

foot?

 

Some say a prince,

tall and fair,

will search the long,

dark night.

 

Yet the wearer waits

not for a prince, but

a princess to come

in sight.

 

Together they will

cast aside stray

whispers of the

old.

 

Searching stars overhead

and gleaming lands

forgotten but long

foretold.