Poetry

Splinters

The splinters of the branch slid into my fingers

as it snapped at the force of my hand as I tumbled into the tree.

Blood beaded down the bark and caught on the tip of a serrated leaf.

The red mirror showed

how little I’d changed

despite being shoved out of line, convinced my place was over here, not there.

My hair was ruffled, but still mine.

My clothes were covered in cobwebs and lichen, but still mine.

My eyes were wet and open, but still mine.

The blood dripped from the leaf and was instantly swallowed by the soil.

I stood up.

Poetry

A photograph of a bench by a lake

The bench is open to any body

contemplating the cool glass before it.

It sees the day and the night, a breeding

ground for those lost souls who have been guided

falsely by the clouds.

It sits in the one patch of sun breaking through the shadows

playing bait. It knows some

will wish to be swallowed up.

Poetry

I am your mirror and you are mine.

I could go on about how it was a glimpse

of some things I didn’t imagine.

My brain still turning

despite the gears being clogged.

 

You made a box for me.

Hidden compartments, secret codes,

a smile, that does glisten,

an endless stream of patter,

a bond stronger

than papers and regulation.

 

Cradle it. 

Cradle it.

Cradle it.

 

I know the answer, what

all the decisions have led to:

different ends

of a spectrum but closer

than anything.

Poetry

Shaken, not stirred.

We’re two sides of the same coin,

individually an image, combined a complete person.

We could have gone forever not meeting one another,

blind to what we can see in a room of mirrors.

It took throwing caution up in the air

on a chance comment

to flip our perspectives

and finally see that we’ve always been just a short way apart,

the possibility of our friendship

slapping us in the face until we finally listened.

Poetry

Liquid Clay

You hand fits in mine so perfectly,

I wonder if they were cast from the same mould.

I can feel all of you

in even the slightest touch.

I know our thoughts of the future,

and I bathe in them every day, thinking

one day,

one day.

 

The leaves are browning; coppers, bronze, golds.

You are silver. A river of it,

a mirror

that I can swim in to the house we’ll have,

with a library,

a dojo,

a room of puzzles only we can solve.

 

Forwards or backwards,

past or future.

Not forgetting the sweet moments of present.

 

 

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

Here or there

We were, as always, running

down to the spring lake,

splashing in the clear water

and watching the drops

as if they were mirror glass

ready to tell us our fortunes.

You said you saw a figure

in blue

gliding across vast plains

on a hand-held sail

of cloth and wood.

You said you wished

you were that free.

I asked you how you were sure

that the figure was free.

If they were to see you

through a droplet of mirror-glass

splashing around as you do

would they not think

you were free, too?

Even though you claim you aren’t.

You had no answer,

but to turn to another

and try to see something there.

Poetry

Soiled Glass

The chugging of the engine wakes me;

I am tainted

with its fumes.

A blackened face

in a blackened mirror,

a copy made of carbon

filled with the discards of personality.

 

My doppelganger’s stupidity

faces me everyday,

always solid with the expression of the trapped.

 

Ironic, don’t you think?

 

If only I could roll it up

into little balls of doughy flesh

and pop them into my mouth one by one,

chewing and chewing until the juices

flow out

and I can use them to wipe away

the layers of coal-dusted

skin.

 

Poetry

The Neat Gurney

A glimmer catches your eye,

you look closer, taking in

the brightness and separating it

from the image beyond.

There you see her eyes sparkling

blue, full of hope

that tugs at your being.

You dare to believe her optimism

is not misguided,

but then the mirror darkens,

clouded by a storm of muttering.

The doctor says this is normal.

Still, deep down,

you can’t help but fear

the worst.

Poetry

Ice on Lips (draft)

The splitting of the glass caused the earth

to cry out; caused the earth to cry out

with the agony of the darkest mottles

taking root in hearts and eyes,

framed into windows and tailored spectacles.

A vision of wrinkles, dark splotches cast

into marbled nature, now teach warped

learning to craft cunning thoughts.

Caught! The attention of ice, snowflakes

skitter down, plucking a kiss from

the lips of her cunning prey, wrapping

cool breath tightly about to mask

the journey through frozen skies.