Poetry

Edges and acorns

The mountain doesn’t look like a mountain

when it’s all painted up with leaves and acorns

and leftover drops of sun.

It’s more an artwork on canvas,

something that I can appreciate but not feel squashed by.

It’s when it’s stark and white,

only its sharpness and jagged edges to display

that my head decides to landslide

and any progress I’ve made

erases itself until

the next leaf fall.

Poetry

Mindset

I’m in an uncertain mood.

 

Uncertain if the days

are long

or if my mind is simply

short.

 

How many times does a person nod

when you’re not writing

about them?

 

Does the sun mind

that we can’t look at it,

or does it laugh

because we can,

just not in the way we think?

 

Have you heard the rumour

that a dripping tap

collects its drips

in a glass,

and then drinks them?

 

Did you watch the rumour

as it spilled from my lips

when I saw the tap

drink its drips

because the sun laughed

even when it felt sad

that no-one could look upon it

when, in fact, the person only nodded,

twice,

when they realised

my mind is short

and the day is long?

 

My mood is uncertain of me.

Poetry

Naked reflection

In the mirror, I don’t see myself. I see my plain face, worn eyes and body frame (Summer: tabloids bleating ‘beach body, beach body’. Pressure. Desperation. Hunger. Winter: recipe ideas that feed twelve guests. Temptation. Indulgence. Guilt.) But that’s not actually me. That self doesn’t exist in the mirror. In fact, I’m not even sure it exists at all anymore. I’ve been swallowed by a giant beast and squashed by everything else it consumes. I’m so far down that I can no longer see the light from its mouth. But perhaps there’s still a chance that something in here can help me. I should start searching.