Poetry

Untitled

Untitled, I am simply me

to walk around and sketch the day

as I please. Or that’s what you might expect

if you spy me from a distance,

the woman who can take her time doing this and that,

including moulding time itself into whatever shape she likes.

Underneath the glass, however,

I have a structure that demands I do something deemed as an achievement

each day, and my body won’t let me rest

nor will my mind,

and in those rare times when I beat it back

guilt wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes

until the enjoyment of whatever I’m doing for fun

turns dull and grey, as ash in my mouth.

Poetry

Let down your hair

The tower I am trapped in

is hidden in the darkest of recesses.

There are no ropes for me to let down,

no long locks of hair for me to weave.

If I jump, I will plummet.

 

I have been shorn, stripped of all that I am.

 

The world has gone silent.

The world has gone dark.

 

But then a pulse

beats through the stone walls.

Vibrant as morning light sparkling on the sea’s spray.

 

I hear it.

Accompanied by a scent I cannot describe,

but akin to that

of spring to a flower.

 

The darkness smothering me

begins to recede.

My hair is given permission to grow again,

and so I let it.

 

Finally, I am able

to make my escape.

Poetry

Griffin Nuggets

Imagining people as mythical creatures,

whether they’re the people

you know so well you can map out every mole on their arms

like a constellation,

or one of those people

who grind you under their boots just for fun,

can completely change

your view of reality.

So even on days

when you want nothing more than to huddle

into a ball and hide from the world,

this little nugget of imagination

never fails to offer a moment of hilarity.

And sometimes,

it can change your mood in an instant.

Poetry

Splice

If my heart was a jigsaw puzzle, every

piece would be a different colour, and

there would be more than one way to fit it together.

Some days the greens would take centre stage,

the days when I’m doing what I love and spending time

with those I love. Warm, cosy, satisfied.

Then on days when I’m alone, but still content,

blues and aquamarines would drift in and nestle neatly,

peaceful days spent in a book or in the woods.

Reds and oranges for those anxious, frustrating times,

and then yellow, my least favourite of all,

barging in at the most inappropriate of times

to bring me down into a world of doubt, depression, decline.

But I have to remember, all it takes to shift it

is a simple switch of the pieces.

Poetry

Daisy chain

Our link between worlds –

You, standing on a plinth of long grass,

looking across the clouds

to watch them take breath. Wild

flowers root at your feet.

Me, voice on the wind

ready to wake your ears

from the ballad infecting

your past. Fleeting,

barely a strand of thought

connects us, gone the instant it arrives.

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.