Poetry

Tightrope walking

I take a cup of water and shake it up like dice on a gambling table,

throwing it out to watch it splash down on the invisible webs

plucking as my eyes, at my hands, at my will.

The droplets reveal them, more than I knew there were

(though I had suspicions), stretching far back into the past

where I thought it didn’t matter anymore.

But it seems that though the spiders have long since died,

their silk is as strong as it ever was, and has bound me

more tight than I can bear.

I have nothing that can cut them, so I must work to unravel them instead.

I don’t know how much time it will take. It doesn’t matter,

as long as I make sure to live along the way.

Poetry

Heat Haze

In the heat of summer,

when our throats

are thirsty, eyes unfocused,

sweat clinging to every part,

we hear the hum, loud as an engine

by our ear. It is the fly,

humble, persistent and even

happy in a group.

We often think of flies as dirty

deeply unclean

and unnecessary things,

disregarding

their role in decomposition.

From decomposition

comes nourishment

for the ground, the spark of growth

and life.

Perhaps that is why the fly

makes such a to-do

about its buzz.

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.