Poetry

Attached

Enter: a shadow, the basement

of a person, painted solid by their ledger.

Hushing for silence

that doesn’t exist.

The audience sees it clearly under the bright stage lights,

but its owner is blind.

They feel so transparent, they’re not even sure they have a shadow anymore.

It sneaks up behind

and photographs them, panoramic view,

and leaves the print at their feet.

Evidence. Opaque as can be.

Poetry

Bright eyes and lies

A rabbit with eyes wide and bright

with the light from the car’s full beam

scampers off just as the wheels screech.

Halt.

Daffodils rise up at the pound of its paws,

followed by crocuses, tulips, hyacinths, nerines,

budding and dying just as quick. A few

fading petals and a dusting of pollen

the only trace.

Examine.

Heavy boots race up the path the rabbit has taken,

no flowers rise. No flowers bloom. No flowers die.

And the rabbit is gone, buried beneath the snow

to stay warm, away from the sprinklers

that spread summer’s mirage.

Above ground is cold, just as it always is.

Just as winter is.

Poetry

Monsters

In my mind after

it breaks down, the world

creeps up on me.

It’s a monster

in my head, sinking its nails in

until I bleed out.

 

Upside down,

I break through. Struggling for air

as I crash the surface,

tearing at the dark scales that cover my eyes.

 

I am a hunter, but also the hunted.

I am the monster.

I am the monster

of the world in my head.

Poetry

Here is a picture

Here is a picture I painted. I did it

for you. In one corner

you can see the roses I gave you

on our first date. On the other side

there is the park where we took our first stroll.

Yes, I even included

the gravestones – I knew you’d like them.

And in the distance your foot,

just visible behind the tree

where I hid you.

Poetry

Time bubble

I’m falling out of love with the apples

suspended in the air, frozen

on their descent to the ground.

The songbirds too, paused

in mid-flight away from the rain clouds.

I can stand in front of a whole swarm of bees,

rear ends rapier-pointed at my face,

knowing they will never pierce me.

What’s there to like

about a world that does not breathe?