Poetry

If we are ignored

The grass is grey, crisp bones poking through.

Buttercups, they are, dandelion clocks

chiming the century after the forests fell.

The echoes fertilise their corms, pushing to flower

at every survivor who stumbles across

holding up their torn petal-banners to give their voices

to the voiceless. Broken, worn, silenced before

by those who did not live to regret their iron fists, those who

choked on their black nectar as they feasted from golden mugs,

no-one left to mourn.

Poetry

Broken Time

The couple are seated, quietly speaking on a bench.

They talk of days, of moments, of ups, of downs.

Nothing they do disturbs the hustle beyond them, until someone

claims that it does.

 

They’re sitting too close, if they want to be intimate, find somewhere else.

They remain seated, talking. Just talking.

Those things shouldn’t be spoken about in public. Save them for later.

They hesitate, then continue talking.

Is there something wrong with you? It’s crazy you would be so open. What if a child hears you? Do you really want that?

 

Tainting them? Tainting me? Tainting us?

 

Voices that were silent now crash over the couple’s moment,

blocking their words, twisting them, unhinging them.

 

The couple takes out a tube of bubbles trying to seal themselves away.

It works, but the clock is already counting down until it pops.

 

They hope no-one appears with a pin.

Poetry

Ink blot

My heart is an inkwell, each beat

sending rivers through my veins

that stain my nails black, every

second nearing me to the moment

I’ll run dry; full colour pages

getting fainter and fainter with each sheet.

Every time I am naive enough

to believe that I’ll never exhaust myself,

that I can keep up the image

projected in front of my face,

my fingertips blacken and all that I am

drips off them to the ground,

trodden down and kicked easily

aside by those who are so trained to follow along

that they never even notice I’ve crumpled.

I want to speak up, but my mouth

and my brain are so disconnected

I can only do it when someone takes the time

to give me a pen and paper,

and I can let my blood pour out and form itself into words,

hoping, simply hoping,

that they’ll finally understand.

Poetry

Society

Sometimes I’m amazed at how kind complete strangers can be, even if it’s just a simple gesture – stopping to let me cross the road at a busy time.

Occasionally, it makes me forget that just because I can’t always see the shade, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Crash. The day is hazed as it all leaks back to the forefront again. An article about the state of animals transported abroad.

It makes me choke. So much cruelty. So much ignorance. So much death.

Enter news of wars and children killed in a mass of explosions all because grown-ups can’t shake hands.

Tidal waves within me, and I feel powerless and angry.

Yet despite all this, the great hive still buzzes. Even for me, hiding that data in code for the sake of living.

Poetry

Forgive

Forgive the way I find it uncomfortable to be around people,

forgive the way I dress, comfortable loose t-shirts and harem pants,

forgive the fact I don’t wax, shaving my legs only when I feel,

forgive my inability to be okay with strangers touching me,

forgive my blunt nature, stating what I think,

forgive my lack of make-up, wearing just my face,

forgive me for not understanding ‘obvious’ directions,

forgive me for not getting your witty jokes,

forgive me from stepping aside when you get too close,

forgive me for being me, acting ‘separate’ or ‘aloof’.

 

Wait.

No, not forgive.

Accept.

 

Accept me, you shit.

Poetry

I don’t remember the title, but it’s blue…

There are times when my palm is super glued to my face.

I can’t even look at another person for fear of something idiotic

escaping their lips and causing tears to spring from my eyes,

wide with incredulity. Said a person in a bookshop,

this morning to their phone, ‘Siri, what books are in this bookshop?’

‘Here’s what I’ve come up with,’ dutiful Siri replied

while her search results loaded and the asker

gazed idly at the bookshelves, an inch or so away.

But of course, Siri could not see inside the bookshop,

and so could only guess. ‘That’s no good. I need to know

exactly what books this bookshop sells.’

‘Here’s what I’ve come up with,’ she repeats. I swear

this time her digital voice is filled with resignation.

Poetry

Brunch.

In my eggcup is a blackened stone vaguely heart-shaped. If I touch it, beads of red rise to the surface to greet my skin. They retreat at the same time I do. The lady across the street hires out coffins. Thirty pounds a day, one hundred pounds fine if said coffins are accidentally buried. Uplift charge, you see. I tap the stone in my eggcup with a teaspoon. Charred pieces splinter off, revealing a soft, pink inner. I dig in.