Poetry

Salt Crystals

I balance on the edge, my little boat bobbing along

above sunken wrecks with bottles still clutched in their hands.

The ocean spray on my cheeks is stale

and tastes like tears that have frozen on my face,

for all the world to see.

I could hide them with a mask, but all the ones I’ve tried before melted.

I shall keep following the water

and see where it washes my boat ashore.

Poetry

Outside In

Her fingernails have grown into long yellow keys,

toenails rusted locks that refuse to open.

Her eyes are not windows into her soul,

but gateways to the outside of her circular thinking.

Cobwebs make up her thick woolens, and as she waits

on a black three-legged stool to be chosen,

she pulls a blanket of fog around her shoulders

to keep the dry out.

Weather complains that she is messing with his schedule again.

 

Poetry

The Teapot Trial

Lined up on the kitchen worktop

are three teapots.

One red.

One blue.

One yellow.

 

In the red

a flame licks the inside,

burning without wick or fuel.

I hold my hand over the spout

where the heat

warms

my purpling fingers.

 

I move to the blue.

Inside that,

a grey cloud swirls around,

pouring rain from the spout.

I gather it up,

wetting my peeling lips.

 

I look to the yellow.

I know what’s inside without touching.

A single seed, freshly sprouted,

waits for me.

I mustn’t touch.

I must touch.

 

If I give in,

I’ll live again.

 

But living

means emotions,

hurts and loves that I can’t control.

 

I’m not ready.

Not yet.