Poetry

Thoughts I had while eating chocolate spread from the jar

Scraping the bottom of the barrel,

those threads and fibres of ideas.

They’re no good, they say.

So I counter; I’m not scraping, I’m shaping,

crafting not a barrel but a watertight embrace

that I can shelter in as society’s laughter stampedes.

 

In my cave of solitude, while I wait for quiet,

those threads have been plaited into prose.

 

Like Tolkien, like Rowling – it’s all just the same.

 

No, it’s all just me. They may only see words,

but their children will see worlds.

Poetry

Opening credits

Pretending it’s okay

not to be cast

as the main character,

to always be left behind

while others race to the moon

and bathe in its shimmering

light.

 

That’s you all over.

 

I’ve watched you

calmly accepting

year after year

day after day

hour after hour

that you’re second best.

 

I can’t hold back any longer.

 

I reach for the mirror,

grasping it firmly,

and force you to look

into it.

 

You do.

 

Your eyes meet mine.

You realise that you don’t want

to

race

to the moon, anyway.

 

You strap rockets to your feet

and fly

instead,

capturing its light

in your hands

to sculpt

the moon’s tears

one by one,

each different to the last.

 

People pick them up where they land,

marveling at their uniqueness.

 

Finally, you’re proud

of who you are.

 

Finally, I’m proud

of who I am.

 

Poetry

Beauty Contest

How do you measure

the prettiness of a flower?

Do you look at it from every angle,

taking a ruler to each petal

and then recording the measurements

in order to conclude

perfect symmetry?

Do you lay them

next to others

of the same hue,

matching them with those

that have already won the vote

for overall vibrancy?

Do you gather them into a bunch

for an authority to assess

how well they can be displayed?

Or is it the case

that you do not judge them

at all?

Perhaps you have realised

that in order to fully observe

the beauty in each,

you must first appreciate

their differences.

Poetry

An afternoon on the move

Rolling hills tumble;

the train passes them before a breath can be taken.

No chugging along,

full

speed

ahead!

 

Gazes dip as it reaches the bridge.

The earth falls away.

 

We are floating. Momentarily.

 

Swift as a swift,

the ground stacks itself again.

Exhales are heard –

the hills give a thundering chuckle.