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

Building a dam

Troubled gaze,

flashes of haze in the mind

replacing coherence

with an utterance of garbled words.

Grinding out thoughts half-chewed

down the speaking pipe leading to you.

The waterworks called my eyes

also storm in, no surprise

and shut away every important thing

so I’m left rambling.

You understand, I know it happens to you too

and I agree it’s never grand

to be suppressed by your own throat

as it seizes up dry as a deserted moat.

Oh well. We’ll get there.

We’ll just enjoy every moment we have to spare

together.

Poetry

Words that Stay

How often do you think about the words you use?

Do you say certain words because you like the clarity, the directness

of the ideas they present?

How about the way they roll off your tongue,

or force your mouth to contort

into wild shapes you hope will never be caught

in a photograph?

Do you like words that sound heavy

or soft?

Words that bring in other cultures,

nationalities, tastes, smells,

summer days

and the moments after rain?

Words that hurt more than a blow to the face

or words that comfort

just as much as a friend’s embrace?

How often do you think of the words that are origins of words,

 

The ocean of language

is never still,

it swirls and eddies

just as much as the world

that gives them life.

Poetry

Name games

Thanks, sweetheart. Thanks, angel. Thanks, love. Thanks, sugar. Thanks, pet. Thanks, darling. Thanks, treasure. Thanks, precious.

Words of endearment stream from people’s mouths so easily now,

I begin to wonder if they’ve lost their meaning.

Complete strangers calling me more names than my family,

my friends, even my spouse.

 

I never hear them call the boys ‘love’ or ‘darling’.

I wonder why that is.

I hear ‘mate’, if any at all.

Thanks, mate. Good job, mate. Nice to see you, mate. Well done, mate.

 

Sometimes, everyone seems to be a star.

But why?

We’re just doing what’s been asked of us, what we’ve been trained to do.

I suppose that’s it.

You’re just responding in a way you think you’re being asked, in the way you’ve been trained.

Where a boy cannot be a treasure, and a girl cannot be a mate.

You might not think that anymore,

but the words remain from when you did.

Poetry

Pure imagination

That mossy frog carved out of sugar,

clinging to the rocky path by the chocolate lake

is staring at you, my friend.

It’s watching you devour that flower

cup made of wax, yet plucked so readily from its stem.

Your purple coat affronts it,

as do you witty jokes, but it does

enjoy the children despairing over who will be

the one the blowing gum chokes.

Poetry

Next, please.

Crafting, a menu that extends to the farthest craters of the moon. Drawers inside of boxes, containing tiny keys – silver, brass, gold. Locks in high places, just out of reach, tucked behind ears for later thinking. A pot of molten language, sifting, bubbling, evolving. Curses turn to common tongue, tongues that cease to pause and hear. Words tiptoe away down to the shadows.