Poetry

On a spring day

Her name is made of leaves

as she cups the sun in her hands

and turns it into golden liquid, elixir

blood, life.

Her face is of soil, is of water,

drawing, drawing

until her heart turns green, then red

and erupts

for the bees to collect.

Her pieces fill their baskets

and they spread her fingers everywhere.

Sparks for everything she touches.

 

Poetry

Rattled bones

It’s a lovely spring afternoon, so much fresh air!

Until I step outside for a quick nip to the shops:

humans doing human things everywhere.

 

A snarky conversation rolls by with a pram,

loud enough to be commandments –

I think I did see a tablet in their hands.

 

Cars zoom past on a racecourse I can’t see,

their colours all blurring into one

and a thunder juggling my insides around violently.

 

Then there’s the monster being fed parts of tree,

gobbling them up as tasty snacks

while its tamer looks upon its destruction blindly.

 

I admit I can’t fault the elderly chap mowing his lawn,

after all, the sun is out and the grass is dry,

but all combined this noise shatters me and leaves me drawn.

 

Such a journey may have been a simple quest in theory,

yet for me the price of undertaking it

meant spending the rest of the day dead weary.

Poetry

Grove hands

It cloaks me sometimes, the dark particles of ether.

A life stream in reverse, doll eyes reflect the world but not within.

 

The trees whisper my name, leaves touching my fingertips

to call me back from where I am, the sun aiding them with warmth.

 

The clouds are bright.

I feel the air and hear the movement.

There is so much life around me.

 

It tinkles like a bell, and when it’s sweet enough,

I can stand.

 

Poetry

My forehead is covered in stars

And they cover my eyes sometimes

so all I can see is the brightness they give off,

twinkling like polished, princess cut gems

only seen on T.V.

Before, my forehead

was perpetually covered in rain clouds,

black fluff that wouldn’t budge

no matter how many times I scrubbed my face raw.

Then I became friends with someone whose hair was covered

in gleeful fire demons,

his grin as swamping as theirs

but overjoyed, not menacing.

We talked. We rambled. We talked. We rambled.

And the fire demons latched onto my own hair

as finally we kissed,

running across my brow

to settle in their original forms,

usually only seen in the night sky.

Poetry

Night Lights

Snap! Go the fingers,

summoning a swirling, curving, whirling

mass of colour

around the feet well travelled.

 

Calloused hands link together

as the dance begins,

a lively jig of forest sprites, glow-worm bright

against the night.

 

The crickets sing, violin strokes,

The sighing breath of sparkling eyes

soars up towards the turning skies,

heart a thump, dervish motion,

drinking deep a blissful laugh.

Poetry

Dream Recount

The light is bright,

but it has a condescending voice sometimes.

It’s also yellow, one of my least favourite colours,

and when it goes on and on at me,

I’m just a little overwhelmed.

Then there’s the crash of shattering glass

as feet shuffle, shuffle nearer.

A petty argument over my shoulder,

and no one’s answering the phone;

as I ring and ring,

I might as well be calling the moon.

I think I’d get a faster response.

Oh, but now here you are, my friend.

You’re taking my hand?

Why? – it’s okay.

It is, isn’t it?

Okay, I mean. With you looking out for me.

You just one-upped the light.

Huh.

Thanks, buddy.

Poetry

Wave barrier

The hubbub in my ears rumbles through my bones and shakes the foundation I balance on. The conversations of a hundred different people, hiss, snicker, guffaw. Chatter chatter chatter, clinking glasses, scraping cutlery, a band incessantly droning on, light brightening, yellowing, glaring. It’s a wave of sensory input building, building, waiting to crash down and knock me back.

I can beat this, I can hold my ground.

Building my own rhythm, a gentle tap of focus. Constant, repetitive motion. A wall against the wave. My feet start to steady.

I might still get pushed back, but I’ll stay standing this time.