Crisp Pages

I open my journal, touch

the fibre rich pages with my pen      and pause.

How do I word the thoughts

in    my   head?

L e t t e r s  skip around, a merry jig

and I’m struck by how many writings

have come before this,

before me.

Surely those hands   did not falter   so?

Or perhaps they did,

and persevered anyway.

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Splice

If my heart was a jigsaw puzzle, every

piece would be a different colour, and

there would be more than one way to fit it together.

Some days the greens would take centre stage,

the days when I’m doing what I love and spending time

with those I love. Warm, cosy, satisfied.

Then on days when I’m alone, but still content,

blues and aquamarines would drift in and nestle neatly,

peaceful days spent in a book or in the woods.

Reds and oranges for those anxious, frustrating times,

and then yellow, my least favourite of all,

barging in at the most inappropriate of times

to bring me down into a world of doubt, depression, decline.

But I have to remember, all it takes to shift it

is a simple switch of the pieces.