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?

Poetry

Patchwork

It’s said that every seven years,

our bodies change.

We shed who we were and take on new thread

to spin into a suit of current experiences

and timid goals.

 

We can’t lose our previous selves completely.

 

At a deep, stubborn level,

our essence never morphs.

It lies in wait

gathering parts it likes

and casting aside those it doesn’t,

so that eventually, when the time comes

to accept our truest nature,

we can be as comfortable in our own skin

as we were before the influence of others took hold.

 

We are a patchwork of our lives,

well worn in places,

freshly pressed in others

and often oddly put together.

 

But we are human.

We are flawed.

And that’s what makes us.

 

Poetry

Match

We meet each other, synchronized steps,

turning into flares of words that are like fire on the tongue,

glowing and ready to light

the waiting path ahead.

 

A chorus of whispers, soft as a first kiss,

fills the air and fuels the determination

powering our muscles as we run

to the portal

that will cast off the personas we present to the world

so we can dance together,

as ourselves,

until the concept of time is meaningless.

Poetry

Observations of a face

Each muscle works to form an expression,

a twitch of the mouth on one side forming a half-smile

that exposes your teeth just enough to lightly rest the backs of your fingers against them;

pensive as always

staring off into the distance or close inside your heart.

Sometimes your eyes are mild and calm like a quiet lake on a still afternoon,

but they can change in a beat

to intense as a great maelstrom threatening to swallow every ship headed its way.

Soft brows cannot hide the waves of emotion

threatening to crash forth;

only practice and willpower make them bow down.

And then those cheeks, always lifted in a grin,

but which only ache, wonderfully,

from a true smile.

Poetry

We are alive

I can hear you in the music that dances around me.

Feel your armsĀ around my waist

and inhale your intoxicating aroma

as we fly, not fall, into the abyss

that greets us with a full display of colour

and vibrancy.

We could travel through every wormhole, portal

and slit in the fabric of reality

and never lose sight of ourselves

because we build from one another,

never decaying.

Poetry

Drop your guard

When you stand before someone

exactly as you are,

no armour, no shield,

and still have the courage to look into their eyes –

you are strong.

You are raw, and you are real.

And when you let them do the same,

with no judgement,

understanding dawns for both of you.

You might be scared,

but opening chests that have long rusted shut

was never going to be easy.

All you can do is be the net

to catch each other

as your whole spills forth

and slips through your fingers.

Poetry

Hubbub

Hubbub.

Who’s listening?

 

Chatter, natter, prattle

Prat.

 

Screens in our face, over our eyes

in our minds.

Siding with popular opinion,

shying away from engaging that hungry engine, the brain.

Work them, encourage them

steam-powered as they may be.

 

Quiet, I crave.

 

No, they sing.

We need the noise, need the buzz,

need the bright lights and sweat and alcohol

and neon screens

to feel normal.

 

Normal?

What is normal

but a falsity of who you are

trying to resemble

the falsehood of others.

 

Hubbub.

Who’s listening?

Chatter, natter, prattle

Prat.

 

Quiet, I crave.

Independent thinking, I urge.

Eccecentric. Weird. Outcast, they sing.

 

Poetry

Reoccurring

I’m still falling.

I see the ground rushing towards me even as it floats away.

My feet

no longer know what it is to stand on solid boundaries;

they pass through

and I am birthed out into a loop

of waking and sleeping

and waking again to find that I’m still sleeping,

and can’t escape.

 

My breath comes short

but also long,

empty lungs somehow full to bursting.

How can this be real?

How can I be real?

How can I stop myself

from fading away?