Set in

There are crystals in my heart. Each fractal

a different fiery star

that brightens every time its moment comes.

As I swim against the current,

submerged fully into the overwhelming waters

of reality, these bursts of light

are split into colours that hiss and spit their intensity

into every passion I have.

 

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Picture Thinking

The mere mention of an object, hint of an idea, suggestion of a concept

and my mind has plastered it all over my thinking space:

magazine cut-outs, posters, video stills,

reels of film. Solid as the wall in front of me,

just behind my eyes. It’s odd that it’s invisible to you.

Elephants come charging in from The Jungle Book,

pink cousins visiting from Dumbo,

onyx bead eyes from a National Geographic photo I once saw

and a few others dancing around up there, with the word ELEPHANT

in grey, wrinkled lettering floating above their heads.

No one ever talks about how they think,

I didn’t realise this associative image gallery

wasn’t the norm.

It’s release day for my poetry collection, A Book For Pandora!

Greetings, everyone!

A Book for Pandora has been a while in the making, so I’m delighted to finally be able to share it with you.

Those of you who have been following me since the beginning may recognise many of the poems in this collection, as most of them originated as drafts on this very blog. Of course, they have since been tweaked and fine tuned over the years until I was happy with them – which, being of the perfectionist type, was quite hard for me to do – and have now been neatly ordered and presented in one solid tome.

So, without further ado, here it is in paperback and on Kindle.

Peach Stone

1.

Inside, it’s cold. The density

causes ice to vomit from my mouth,

fingernails blue up to the cuticles.

If I were to examine my chest,

open my flesh and push apart my ribs,

would I see a ball of obsidian

or a fleshy, ripe peach?

 

2.

With you, the limbs of the tree are always

bent with fruit

no matter if the middle of winter

grasps at its bark. Soft, plump, nourishing.

I can always pick how much I want,

cook it up and make sweet crumble

to warm our bellies.

 

 

A thousand

There was a time when revealing any part of ourselves

to others

was something neither of us

could ever do.

We liked to play with illusions and give them out freely,

a cheap ticket to the circus act

we wanted to emit,

concealing with flare and artful tongues

the decrepit conditions

behind the scenes.

But our painted smiles have been washed off,

scrubbed away

until only our blemished, ruddy cheeks remain.

We’ve gone au naturel,

and now our smiles for each other

hold as much power as a thousand

years could bring us.

A Day with Rain

The earth drinks.

Gulping down the sweat of clouds

like a thirsty doe whose energy

has all but been spent rearing her fawns.

 

Gullies are overrun by rivers;

old newspapers float by,

tiny boats setting sail for new land.

 

Giant mushrooms are held by the statues waiting

for the bus to stop by.

shielding the stone faces from incessant drops.

 

 

Little demon

There’s a snide gremlin in my head.

Picking up my faults, saying the stars will never greet me,

the oceans never rise to meet me,

nor the clouds ever offer to carry me up

to kiss the moon.

When it drones on and on, pulling and twisting

every nerve in my body to get a reaction,

I swear at it and plough on with my day.

It won’t bring me down.

The Tower

The tower

is an island

all of its own.

 

The tower

is a needle

in an embroidery pattern.

 

The tower

is a hand waving

both hello and goodbye.

 

The tower

is a tree,

branch-less yet sturdy.

 

The tower

is a central pole

in a big top circus.

 

The tower

is polished crystal,

mirroring the stars.

 

The tower

is just a tower,

when all’s said and done.

Faces in places

Faces glance down on us when we’re not looking.

Knotted mouths with noses in the air, hands

above their heads, pointing, staring,

laughing at how small we are

compared to their lengthy limbs

that could scoop us up if they could move at all.

The ivy beards cover their mouths,

fungi hiding their tears of mirth.

 

Winter’s call

The cloak flaps about in the wind. Wings of an untamed beast expressing their disconcert – tied to the long neck of a statue, for all it’s worth. Crisp, frozen grass blades crunch at the first steps of the morn. Another day. Another cloak of wings that can’t get away.