Poetry

Sweet song

Sugarplum, honeycomb

Mild spiced apple strudel,

When will you take my hand

And hope not for my refusal?

 

Oh, pumpkin cakes, sweetheart,

Honeyed fresh-baked bun,

When will you seek the blessing

And hope not to then be on the run?

 

Oh muffin, pudding,

Deep filled cherry pie,

When can I express my love

And say I’ll stand with you til I die?

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Poetry

Risen

Morning breeze parts the motes

Over the bed

Leaving the figure breathing

Even air, eyelids flutter as lungs fill.

Cobwebs act as puppet strings

Under the withered arms

Lifting the figure’s frame,

Enticing it to live once more.

 

Poetry

The Magician’s Bedroom

A box of playing cards, premium print.

A corseted top hat with deep red hints.

A box of chips, yet no bag.

A unicorn doll, still with tag.

A mountain made from clothes

including socks with holes at the toes.

Cables, cables, wires and more!

A discarded table on the floor.

Three water bottles, sloshing about

Guarded well from being thrown out.

And peeking carefully into the gloom,

a wary guest too frightened to enter the room.

 

Poetry

The words of magic

The words of magic

can be seen in lines of searching ants,

in the spiral of a snail’s shell,

in the veins of a leaf.

 

The words of magic

can be spoken in verse,

yawned into a pillow,

humoured in the bath.

 

The words of magic

can be expressed through dance,

placed in heavy footsteps,

sounded in a run.

 

The words of magic

can live on our skin,

reside in our blood,

beat with our heart.

 

The words of magic

are never far away.

Check over your shoulder

and greet them with a smile

on the play of the wind.

 

Poetry

Rushing Rivers

Dawn. We kiss, say our

good mornings.

You, the boy who is my best friend,

listen carefully to the account of my dreams.

Sometimes,

night terrors.

You know where parts come from, just as I do.

You know me,

inside and out, like

the motions you use cutting and shuffling cards,

except without the years of practice

yet at the same time

a lifetime of listening and observing.

We get ready for work,

the day ahead planned and uncertain.

We are a tag team, a cassette tape and pencil.

Together, nothing can keep us down.

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

If I only had a…

The scarecrow hops his way along,

uncaring hands and sharp-tongued jokes,

hushing the crowd beyond a whisper,

until they realise the fun he pokes.

 

His purple jacket torn to shreds,

wicked grin and moss green hair,

singing the golden bricks back to attention

not caring if the way is fair.