Poetry

Prime numbers

I’m no good at maths, not the quick mental part anyway.

Or most of the other stuff. But I do like

the puzzling out, finding keys and pathways

if I’m left to pick through it on my own

scratching pencil notes in the margins of textbooks and on graph paper.

But what I really like is prime numbers.

The solidness of knowing they cannot be divided (evenly)

to make themselves smaller.

They are what they are. Unique and separate,

proud to command their value as it is.

 

I wish I was a prime number.

Wish my attention wouldn’t be split

over and over

or shoved into some complicated equation

I can’t even begin to wriggle out of before time runs out.

Poetry

Untitled

Untitled, I am simply me

to walk around and sketch the day

as I please. Or that’s what you might expect

if you spy me from a distance,

the woman who can take her time doing this and that,

including moulding time itself into whatever shape she likes.

Underneath the glass, however,

I have a structure that demands I do something deemed as an achievement

each day, and my body won’t let me rest

nor will my mind,

and in those rare times when I beat it back

guilt wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes

until the enjoyment of whatever I’m doing for fun

turns dull and grey, as ash in my mouth.

Poetry

Pebbles

The stones are cool against my skin as the tide draws away

to leave them raw. Skitter, the drag comes.

It tries to take me with it, but I am planted firm,

my hair rooting into the shore.

I am solid, I am grounded, breathing a concept

I no longer need. The salt in my tears

from eons of watching sunsets and rises

crystalises into my imprint. I’ll remain for eternity,

even if I join the sand.

Poetry

We weren’t ready

I know we weren’t;

the clouds were still grey

and the chambers blocked, a dam within

a dam

where words which weren’t our own

leaked out to be the wall we tried to pass off

as our foundations.

When time passed and they

eroded

and we pieced ourselves back

from the rubble.

That’s when we were ready.

So that’s when it happened: not before.

And we have eons without hourglasses

sewn into each touch.

Poetry

Sorting Hat

A name is simply a thing to be called. It doesn’t define you. Doesn’t own you. Doesn’t always fit. If you want, you can hide behind it. Be just a name, a name with no face. Be a mask, a separator of lives. One name for a close relationship, another for those that are distant. Barely associates. A name can change over time. It isn’t a static thing, once decided, there forever. It is fluid, changing as often, or little, as you like.