Poetry

Crisp Pages

I open my journal, touch

the fibre rich pages with my pen      and pause.

How do I word the thoughts

in    my   head?

L e t t e r s  skip around, a merry jig

and I’m struck by how many writings

have come before this,

before me.

Surely those hands   did not falter   so?

Or perhaps they did,

and persevered anyway.

Poetry

Writer’s pursuit

Where do writers get their ideas from?

All the world wants to know!

Do they sneak off to times gone

while we’re sleeping

and watch the goings on as a show?

 

Do they skip back and forth,

bartering in many different tongues?

Do they bundle old tales and morph them

into diverse, interlocking shapes

and hope the originals won’t see them hung?

 

Perhaps they come in dreams

drifting down rivers and across channels.

Do they filter onto pages in reams,

spider-fast ink overtaking the pores,

to at last become a slab of legible panels?

Poetry

Ink

It spills out through my veins

my corneas, fingernails,

bleeding from my nose

to splash the page I’m fixed to.

I don’t find it suffocating,

only cold. But

it warms every now and then

when the words demand it

for their dinner.

I like those times.

I like to feed them.

Poetry

To speak aloud

‘Who will slay this troublesome claw?’

I ask Night’s cloaked face.

Night snorts out a star, and says,

‘Claw? What claw?

I see only

a man digging the pit

in which he will die from his efforts.’

‘Do you mock me, Night?’ I say.

‘No, I do not mock you. I pity

you, for thinking that I do.’

And then Night turns its collar up,

strolling off into the Way.