Overtime in the notebook

The lighthouse lamp dies.

Fog creeps into each synapse,

hiding the true path.

Time bubble

Inside, the surfaces are greyscale,

effigies so plain they cannot distract.

The only glow comes from the tools on my desk,

the ink, the paper, my own hands.

Time is still while I work,

boring deeper into the creative swirl,

light intensifying

until finally the filament goes

and the clock’s ticking rushes in

with all the colour,

vanishing my focused, serene world

while replacing it with the buzz of everyday life

and the knowledge that hours have passed

in my absence.

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Waterfalls

The pick strikes the ice and shatters the fragments

out into the air. Down they go, hearty lumps,

past my feet as I cling to the side.

 

I stretch up, pick ready, and strike again.

My chest hurts – I’m too eager, I know.

Fragments fly.

 

A routine: pick strike, ice diamonds

pick strike, ice diamonds.

Just frozen water playing rain.

 

So why am I bleeding?

Whispers

In my sleep I keep drowning;

throat filling with water and vision dimming.

I struggle into consciousness, to find

that I still can’t breathe.

The density of the clouds floating above is thick

enough to crush my spirit.

At least that’s what it feels like,

before I have chance to take in,

to consider

who and what,

where and why.

 

And I see you.

Not for the first time.

Not for the second, third, fourth

(I could continue, but you know where I’m headed)

My eyes have cleared of a fog long plaguing them,

you walk beside me in dreams and my reality.

Even though you rarely swim,

you never hesitate to rescue me

from the rushing waters continually

threatening to wash me away.

Gaining pace

Like pulling at teeth,

like moving a boulder,

feet wanting to drag,

brain wanting to slumber.

Pick up the pace,

time is starting to wander

on and on and on and on.

 

The end of the line is in sight,

my friends.

Believe it, it’s true.

I’ll prove it to myself,

if not to you.

I can reach it before the night ends.

Boundless

It seems I have mastered the art

of being in a place while not being there at all.

You see me smiling, speaking, laughing,

gesturing wildly with my hands

while regurgitating the same script

I’ve had for years,

but I’m not actually here.

 

I can be running across the ocean,

hopping from white cap to white cap

while dark shadows try to pull me under.

 

I can be strolling through the woods

listening to the chatter of trees as they lament

the loss of their families, graves marked only by asphalt.

 

I can be waiting under the stars

rearranging the constellations

to make up the lines of faces I know,

framed by wayward strands of hair.

 

Or, more often than you know,

I’m keeping my eyes open to see you,

to show you that if you need me,

no matter how far away I am,

I can always return here.

Discarded Bulb

Light falls on its surface from outside,

giving rise to that bright shine,

but the light that should be coming from within

is absent,

disconnected even though all the components are there

to make it hum with life.

Mind River

It trickles through my veins, pouring

across synapses, moonlight swirled

with mother of pearl

that pools in the corners of my eyes.

Here, in my hand, goading my muscles

to grasp the pen and shape the smoke

with definite, crisp strokes before

those snippet thoughts think to flee.

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.
 

Painting with words

When I first started this blog three months ago, I wrote very little poetry, and it wasn’t even my intention to start writing any, let alone post them. Then, after a few days of trying to find new things to write about, I stumbled across a folder of poems I’d written a few years ago. They weren’t really meaningful poems, but I liked the imagery in them, so with a few tweaks here and there I decided they were worth sharing.

To my surprise, people seemed to like them (and I say surprise because I had, and still have, no idea what makes a good poem. I can’t even tell you why I like the poems that I like, only that something in them speaks to me, and for the ones I don’t like, they’re lacking that something). So, because those poems caught readers’ eyes, I decided to write more. And the more I wrote, the more I enjoyed writing them, and the more I enjoyed writing them, the more vast and focused my ideas became. There’s something about concentrating on a certain image and taking it apart to examine it in detail that I find really therapeutic, and I’ve discovered that I can say so much in just a few short lines.

I can paint with words, and that’s a neat thing to do.