Poetry

Worlds apart, but ever close

In mid-flight, I heard your call,

Never knowing it was you at all.

As I neared the tallest hills,

My eyes caught sight and I was stilled

In the being of you:

Trickling words, algorithms of many hues.

Days, weeks, hours all passed,

I finally know at last,

Wherever I go, you will be.

We are utterly each other’s key

To our future prime.

We’ve given up being blind.

Poetry

A tide of turning

The ink spills onto the page and becomes a river.

Tributaries branch out across several notepads,

soaking through outlines and spider diagrams,

manuscript versions one, two, three, four

final. Final Final. Final Final point one…

The river becomes so large it leaks into the ocean,

where a single bound volume

labelled DICTIONARY

floats to the top, raising its head

like a whale, defined on page 1894.

Poetry

Water Nymph

Sometimes I think I’m water.

Well, technically a substantial portion of me is,

but I’m talking about,

you know,

free flowing water.

The kind that freezes when it’s cold,

or pools in shallow dips when it rains,

hangs around in the air

to fluff up

that girl’s neatly straightened hair.

Except it isn’t my form that changes.

It’s my mood,

my entire attitude

to life.

I’m not complaining, just

observing really.

Once I thought it’d be good to be fire.

Then the wind caught my candle

and blew it out.

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

A slap across the face

Struck like stone

hitting those sieving trays

You get at Legoland, hunting

For fool’s gold.

All gold is fool’s gold to me, the wish to claim

It just as childish as that game.

People get offended when you call them that.

Because no-one is allowed to be like that anymore.
 

Poetry

Estimated time of arrival: unknown

Sitting on the empty sofa in the waiting room

Waiting

To be called;

Palms sweaty, throat small, mind cogs grinding

Every eventuality.

Not the doctor’s, not the dentist, not even

The school nurse’s office.

The sofa is not a sofa.

It is a stark white chair outside your

Parents’ study,

And you are waiting

Waiting

For them to notice.

 

 

Poetry

Times

You can lean

against many things in life.

The sturdy and immoving wall;

Ideas which stretch across lifetimes, continents, cultures;

Friends who were once strangers.

And then

there are those photographs

of diferent times,

times we took for granted

And times we thought

were hard before we knew

what that realĺy meant.