Poetry

Bandages

I can fix this

I tell myself every time,

afraid that inaction will guilt me harder,

panicking because I’m sure I can do something – anything –

to help.

But my intentions never turn out how I imagine,

the end is always the end

and I do nothing to delay it.

Sometimes I speed it up.

I can never be sure,

and so as they drift away in my hands

I feel as cold

as if I’d stood still.

Poetry

A funny thing, hindsight.

I didn’t know you’d be there for me.

I didn’t know that you’d see the things every one else missed,

help me without thinking,

come to stand beside me when I needed to stay grounded.

 

I didn’t know how much you would help me.

I didn’t know how much I would help you.

 

I didn’t know I’d bring you back to yourself.

I didn’t know I was the only one you’d share your deepest thoughts with,

be the inspiration for the words coming from your heart,

be trusted with your past, present and future.

 

I didn’t know any of this.

But if I could tell my past self it would happen,

I wouldn’t.

I’d stay quiet, and let her experience it all fresh,

gently strolling

hand in hand with you

on this adventure that’s still going.

 

Poetry

Ant Nest

Consider life as an ant.

What would you see of the world then?

 

Would you take more notice of the dry, parched grass

that has no bend, just blockades your path and leaves you no shade

from the unexpected sun?

See the browning leaves that may act as boats in those rare puddles,

safe passage across

to that place where

the sweat left by humans as they lie on the ground

permeates into the earth;

 

they try to find peace in a life that attempts to prevent it at every turn.

You don’t mind, you can feast on the litter and wasted food

they leave behind

when they finally go back to their cubes,

hoping that the memory of their break will last them

until the next time.

 

You know more than most about hurdles

and being trodden on by authoritative boots.

It doesn’t stop you, though.

You carry on,

facing every barrier

you come across and finding the best way to pass it.

Always lifting weights greater than yourself.

 

You’re not too proud to ask for help,

in fact

you actively seek it

so as not to get overwhelmed.

 

Yes, consider life as an ant.

Maybe that will change your view.

Poetry

Dream Recount

The light is bright,

but it has a condescending voice sometimes.

It’s also yellow, one of my least favourite colours,

and when it goes on and on at me,

I’m just a little overwhelmed.

Then there’s the crash of shattering glass

as feet shuffle, shuffle nearer.

A petty argument over my shoulder,

and no one’s answering the phone;

as I ring and ring,

I might as well be calling the moon.

I think I’d get a faster response.

Oh, but now here you are, my friend.

You’re taking my hand?

Why? – it’s okay.

It is, isn’t it?

Okay, I mean. With you looking out for me.

You just one-upped the light.

Huh.

Thanks, buddy.

Poetry

Inked

My hands are circuit boards, lines inked like solder

to connect all the dots. A map of who I am

woven into a cloak so you can’t see me at all

unless I show you the route with red marker.

You might not want to look past my shield,

sometimes I don’t want you to, either.

It’s when I break down without knowing,

becoming still and silent, a signpost to nowhere,

that I need you to see. The me behind it all.

Extracts/ Flash Fiction

Merry Weather

At first, I didn’t see her. She was caught between two bushes, tangled up in cobwebs, spindly branches and the lacy trim of her silvery blue cape. I did hear her, though. Cursing so much that I thought a group of drunken sailors had strolled around the corner from the pub in town.

But no. All the swearing was emanating from a tiny fairy, red in the face from her efforts to untangle herself.

If it wasn’t for the fact that she saw me and gave such a scowl that my legs automatically wanted to run for the hills, I might have laughed. Instead, I mumbled an offer of assistance while pulling my most solemn expression, and stepped forwards to help. My fingers slipped in my attempt to de-cobweb her and I ended up jabbing her in the head. She bit me for that. Straight through the skin, so that a bead of blood rose from the puncture wound and stained her clothes. I winced, but her long frenzy of expletives detailing every inch of my incompetence drowned it out. Then she wept, equally as loud, about the state of her clothes and how they were positively ruined.

I think it was supposed to make me feel sorry for her, but in actuality it made her terrifying hold on me weaken enough to simply pinch her roughly out of the tangled mess, tearing her cloak completely. She wailed even more. I pointed out, bluntly, that she was free and if she hadn’t have been wearing the ridiculous thing, she probably wouldn’t have ended up in that state in the first place. In answer, she took a small stick from the top of one boot and jabbed it at my nose. Hot sparks shot out the end, singeing my nostril hairs. I let her go in disgust and watched her zoom away, emitting the wettest raspberry I’d ever heard. At least, I hope it was a raspberry…

Poetry

That wobbling seed

I can hold your hand. I’m always here for you.

Yes, in your hour

of need

 

I’ll be watching

I’ll be waving

I’ll be waiting.

 

Let me take your hand, you know I’m here

always. For you.

That’s

 

the problem,┬áisn’t it?

You do know

it’s me

 

niggling

niggling

niggling

 

in your mind, casting those shadows

around you. Wait.

 

You think

I should be ashamed?

 

I’d say I’m rather proud of what I do.

You’d just take happiness

for granted

 

if I wasn’t here.