Poetry

Patchwork

It’s said that every seven years,

our bodies change.

We shed who we were and take on new thread

to spin into a suit of current experiences

and timid goals.

 

We can’t lose our previous selves completely.

 

At a deep, stubborn level,

our essence never morphs.

It lies in wait

gathering parts it likes

and casting aside those it doesn’t,

so that eventually, when the time comes

to accept our truest nature,

we can be as comfortable in our own skin

as we were before the influence of others took hold.

 

We are a patchwork of our lives,

well worn in places,

freshly pressed in others

and often oddly put together.

 

But we are human.

We are flawed.

And that’s what makes us.

 

Poetry, Uncategorized

Thorn Mirror

Pricking my finger on the first thorn

of a young rose, I suck the bead of blood away

only to find that it’s already left a map on my hand,

pooling in my palm to create

a still mirror

reflecting someone I don’t recognise.

I shake my wrist, flecking the ground with red.

Seedlings sprout from the seeds,

readying their first thorns.

Poetry

Fairy dance

Do you remember the dancing fairies

from Fantasia? 

The ice skating ones, who carve all those lacy designs

on the pond with their toes?

Yes, those ones. Think we could ever

do something like that? Map out our life

on frozen water?

Maybe not on frozen water.

Why not?

Because it’s so still, but life never is.

Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.

Well, now you have.

 

Poetry

Elevenses

Let’s have a catch up.

We’ll sip tea and eat scones with jam

while skipping along the borderline

of countries lost under the seas

and between the stars.

We’ll pick flowers, too.

Nightshade to match your swirling dress,

Foxglove to use as drinking cups –

best not keep it for soup.

We can chart out our own paths

using chalk and chlorophyll

and a compass of needle and cork.

We’ll sing songs heard in seashells

and whisper spells into bottles

to float amongst the sea foam.

Poetry

If we were a map

We drift.

We wave.

We high five

those we always see

those we’ve never met

those we’ve met but don’t see

those we’ve seen around but don’t know until we meet.

We wonder how many times

our lines have crossed

in the chaotic waterfall that drowns everything,

focused on the X that marks the path

but not life.

We steady.

We beckon.

We say our goodbyes.