Peculiarity

The loop closes now,

all pocket watches shatter.

Time ensnares their bones.

Rats

After a conversation between Stephen King and George R. R. Martin

 

Can you feel the paws in your throat

fur on your upper palate?

Poe with his Deus Ex Machina

gave me a rat, too.

A rat that morphed me, studious mouse, into top cat.

Jiffy

A word from you and the world brightens.

A word from you and the future is inked a little clearer.

A word from you, and even the coldest thought is warmed.

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.

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Falling

Spirit. The spirit in your bones,

In your flesh,

Lurking in the fine connections of your brain.

Lightning. Ideas. Drive.

Dive from the precipice,

Weightless and heavy, both.

Free falling

Into the beautiful chaos

Of the lifestream,

Igniting your inner universe.

There is no disappointment,

No fear, no expectations.

Only the blinding essence

Of you.

World Book Day

When opening to a page and getting lost within,

whether fiction, non-fiction, poetry, short stories sweet or grim,

remember that those words, before they were inked,

were the ideas, imagination and experiences

of those creators with whom you are now linked.

This love

The page is white. Bright, brilliant.

Seeping onto it are reds, blues,

greens, purples, yellows.

There are no eyes,

but there are lips,

and an embrace, so close that the colours

merge, the figures

separate but still one.

Their clothes are plain,

because how can any garment

outshine the prism inside?

A spin on Pippin’s song

Behind the world

is home.

Home is where you are, where we are.

Home

is where our hearts go

after we tread the many paths,

from night’s furthest edge

to the closest shadows.

Home is where

we

will never fade.

Slumber

We wouldn’t all fit in a bottle, some of us would

inevitably come tumbling back out the moment

the stopper was loosened. Flowers

of certain bushes only bloom at night,

so only those few who stumble, wakeful,

alive, at that hour, may appreciate them.

Are you tired? Have you ever been more awake?

A simple mark of spilled ink

will never erase a broken heart.

Game on

When the muse strikes I play tennis with her,

inevitably hitting the ball so hard

it collides with her face and knocks her out.

Oops.