Poetry

A thousand

There was a time when revealing any part of ourselves

to others

was something neither of us

could ever do.

We liked to play with illusions and give them out freely,

a cheap ticket to the circus act

we wanted to emit,

concealing with flare and artful tongues

the decrepit conditions

behind the scenes.

But our painted smiles have been washed off,

scrubbed away

until only our blemished, ruddy cheeks remain.

We’ve gone au naturel,

and now our smiles for each other

hold as much power as a thousand

years could bring us.

Poetry

Rushing Rivers

Dawn. We kiss, say our

good mornings.

You, the boy who is my best friend,

listen carefully to the account of my dreams.

Sometimes,

night terrors.

You know where parts come from, just as I do.

You know me,

inside and out, like

the motions you use cutting and shuffling cards,

except without the years of practice

yet at the same time

a lifetime of listening and observing.

We get ready for work,

the day ahead planned and uncertain.

We are a tag team, a cassette tape and pencil.

Together, nothing can keep us down.

Poetry

Rolling chances

How do you weave a web

if you don’t have a corner to claim as your own?

 

How do you spin the spindle

if there is no wheel or thread to be found?

 

How do you sing a note

when your voice is too worn to be heard?

 

And when do you have a chance

to raise your hand

when the forest is already crowded?

Poetry

Into the fog

The fog on the bathroom mirror covers my face,

coating it in a weariness I can normally only see inside.

Droplets run down;

tears I cannot shed.

My mouth is a watery line,

anxious and unsure of who I am.

 

Then you come in and open the window.

The glass clears as you lean against me,

easing my expression to a soft grin

as the warmth seeping from every inch of you

fills my heart.

Poetry

Lip Locked

Considering all the words I have in my head, all the thoughts, opinions, the attitudes that make me me, why, when I have chance to open my mouth, does the flow of my mind run dry?

Why can’t I be the one to argue a point and deliver a message succinctly? Why do I stutter and stare, fighting against my very self just to say something simple, or think in a straightforward way, before my answers stumble, scattered, from my lips?

Why? Why? Why do I need to justify myself to myself? Justify the way that I am? Why does it matter if I can’t verbalise my thoughts,¬†when I can with paper and pen?

Poetry

Water Nymph

Sometimes I think I’m water.

Well, technically a substantial portion of me is,

but I’m talking about,

you know,

free flowing water.

The kind that freezes when it’s cold,

or pools in shallow dips when it rains,

hangs around in the air

to fluff up

that girl’s neatly straightened hair.

Except it isn’t my form that changes.

It’s my mood,

my entire attitude

to life.

I’m not complaining, just

observing really.

Once I thought it’d be good to be fire.

Then the wind caught my candle

and blew it out.

Poetry

Fancy words for little things

We can’t simply stand around

quoting the words of long-dead playwrights

whenever our lovers’ embrace crumples

under the weight of our hesitation.

I want to speak in my own tongues,

not someone else’s. How can their thoughts

be true to what I wish to convey?

Your muchness matches my muchness.

And I hope it will

forever.

Poetry

Upturned paint tins

Shelter; storms gather as we escape

down the grassy staircase, vines

threaten to catch our ankles.

The ground splits open on the final

step. We’re swallowed down –

or perhaps suspended – in the giant

stomach of crumbled earth.

The MC appears behind us.

‘Describe how you get your ideas.’