Poetry

Mood traffic lights

I’m tangled in a web of thoughts,

caught in the spark between my own synapses

sometimes bursting, firework like,

into brilliant greens that form wings and carry me for hours

or fizzle crimson into a statue, vacant for the day.

If only I could learn to tightrope walk

on healthy amber thread.

Poetry

Dead Words

A tower of words merged into brick

waiting to crumble

like the decayed mast of a wrecked ship.

 

The alligators below all circle around

speaking of disaster and sacrifice

while they’re safe on the ground.

 

An annual mania that ignores the dying,

green apologies are spoken;

they don’t realise they’re lying.

 

And then the opening buds of a rose

speak up with new voices

querying the world with new prose.