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.

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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.

Poetry

Sugar Coated

Behind that sweet exterior,

painted, crafted, structured:

a persona loud and clear.

 

I can see you.

See how your eyes do not reflect your

bright-red grin,

see how your long sleeves lift

to reveal silver filigree

around your wrists.

 

But whenever anyone asks

how you are,

you tell them you couldn’t be more fulfilled.

Everyone’s social media blares out their happiness –

so you have to keep up,

don’t you?

Poetry

Spilt milk

I’ve seen many artists make portraits from coffee foam.

Shaping, contouring, scraping.

Letting the natural colour show underneath all that froth.

But what happens if the cup is spilt

and the liquid runs down the tablecloth

in a race to escape its confines?

Will it travel separately, several long tracks dispersing from everything they were before

yet leaving their mark on the cotton,

or will it pool together again to build up the image once more,

refined, certain, bold

to stand out

against the plain colour of its background?

Poetry

Rolling chances

How do you weave a web

if you don’t have a corner to claim as your own?

 

How do you spin the spindle

if there is no wheel or thread to be found?

 

How do you sing a note

when your voice is too worn to be heard?

 

And when do you have a chance

to raise your hand

when the forest is already crowded?