Poetry

Pioneer 2 arrives to greet Pioneer 1

They were pioneers, gathering the people

and turning the marble just so.

It made their lifeboats feel small, they knew they’d outgrown them

and it was time to disembark.

 

The land was fresh, inviting.

The ruins intriguing, worthy of study and admiration,

yet some kept their heads.

What caused their collapse?

 

Communication lines: open.

Hails: none.

Poetry

See From Above

If your view is clouded, obstructed

or you are simply tired of looking,

climb up

so that all the things you fear

and feel are so big they cannot be ignored

become little more than figurines and building blocks,

a child’s game of heroes and villains

where a gentle flick

is all it takes to knock the bad guys to the ground

and a shuffle and re-stacking of pieces

can rebuild what’s been broken.

Poetry

Twisted pence

It’s the twist that makes you jump,

makes you fidget, makes you squeak.

 

What’s this, what’s this, what’s this?

Turn the page, turn up the sound,

 

venture to the next checkpoint

and check in with yourself.

 

Is your pulse racing, your head perspiring

bumps on your arms like a goose?

 

Tick that box while your stomach’s in knots

and tip your hat to the creator.

Poetry

Pure imagination

That mossy frog carved out of sugar,

clinging to the rocky path by the chocolate lake

is staring at you, my friend.

It’s watching you devour that flower

cup made of wax, yet plucked so readily from its stem.

Your purple coat affronts it,

as do you witty jokes, but it does

enjoy the children despairing over who will be

the one the blowing gum chokes.

Poetry

In the study

I can tell by the worn tips of your fingers that you are no stranger to disciplined needlework.

You walk through a graveyard on your way to work, too. The slight smudge of clay soil on your boots, you see.

The only patch of earth between your boarding house and the factory where you are employed. Quick when one is late, I imagine.

Yes, I think you are often late. You arrived here two minutes late, with a flush to your cheeks. You wear no corset, your movements are too free. Easy to hasten. A common practice.

No, I haven’t been following you. I’m simply reading.

Now to the case at hand.

Poetry

The Number Games: May the odds be in your favour

I’m thinking of a number –

no, not that one –

it’s a bit more edgy,

higher too.

So four?

Not quite, try another.

Six then.

Oh, come on now, you

can do better than that.

I said edgy.

Fine, thirteen then.

No, no, no.

Half a triangle more like.

A triangle?

Is this even about numbers anymore?

No, not really,

but it kept you interested

for a while,

didn’t it?

Umm…

The answer was seven.

By the way.

Poetry

Until the die read five or eight

I feel the monsoon sweating down my back,

see the darting tongues of vibrant purple blossoms

and the wrapping vines of sun-kissed waxy blooms.

 

I race the crocodiles down the stream,

run with the wild beasts who stampede over

burial grounds where their ancestors patiently wait.

 

I see the figurines move along their twisted paths

eyeing the telling jewel as their prize,

but the hunter guards it with savage delight.

 

A roll of the die is all it will take to freeze

the years of waiting to the far reaches of mind,

but will it read a five or an eight?

Poetry

Playing cards

I search through the deck of cards, upsetting the neatness of the stack. It doesn’t matter, I can tidy them later; line them up and place them all in order, making sure everything is correct, that the story still flows.

Out of line is the only way I can see the stats clearly, see my qualities measured against each other.

Can I really call them qualities?

I don’t know, but at least I have proof that they exist. That I exist. Until my small house of cards tumbles to the floor.