Poetry

Low fuel

Let’s not confuse the sad with the empty,

though the expressions may be the same.

Tie labels around each toe

with notes on how well the footprints smile.

Are they real, or just so creatively painted on

that you’re mesmerised and can’t see the raw skin

blistering from so much neglect?

Gold stars for getting up in the morning,

lifting up the weighted chains

entwining every limb.

Poetry

Vision

Spread out your collarbones, stand tall.

It’s how they’ll see you

when everything is trying to obscure you from their horizons.

Step through the doors that open,

but only if your heart tells you that’s where it wants to go.

If your eyes catch on another path,

even if there’s no sign,

it can always be enlightening to explore.

Tradition doesn’t have to stale up decisions.

Take the fresh air and use it as an arrow, letting it spin

until it finds your true north.

Poetry

Bog marching

It’s tar, covering my legs, arms, brain.

Clogged up like clockwork that’s been residing at the bottom of a pond for decades.

There are no eagles to pick me up once I’ve reached my destination, but no lava to threaten me as I pick my own path back home.

Time is meaningless and astounding.

I’m in it, not an outsider.

Tick.  Let me wake.

Tock. Let me run.

Poetry

Your attention, please!

And standing, I take a breath

and place the last piece of the puzzle in place.

The click shakes the ground

and reorganises the entire picture

into a montage of how I got here

and the effort it took: the hours

of studying, crafting ’til midnight,

brainstorming in the shower,

putting on armour to shield myself from every rejection

and fighting for my voice to be heard.

 

The film keeps running,

I’m not done yet.

Poetry

No posts found

None to guide the way out of those dreams

where you know you’re dreaming

and simply want to claw your way into the light, grey sky

of morning, any morning.

 

No markers for you to cling to,

no staff to take up and battle, conscious vs subconscious,

a fight not to the death but to waking,

hoping that the sensation of your body moving

is not from the body that is trapped,

hoping it is from the one where blood flows

and grants oxygen to your brain.

 

Awake, awake!

You call, you shout, you scream.

 

No post-it note to remind you that

dreaming about waking up

and waking from a dream are separate things,

and only one can stop the night terror

that paralyses you in the minutes

sleeping past your alarm.

 

No one to tell you that sixty seconds in the waking world

can be a lifetime

in the dream state.

Poetry

A tide of turning

The ink spills onto the page and becomes a river.

Tributaries branch out across several notepads,

soaking through outlines and spider diagrams,

manuscript versions one, two, three, four

final. Final Final. Final Final point one…

The river becomes so large it leaks into the ocean,

where a single bound volume

labelled DICTIONARY

floats to the top, raising its head

like a whale, defined on page 1894.

Poetry

Open your eyes

Fire climbs up my flesh,

seeping through my pores –

my veins are charged

with impulse.

The ledge of the world is before me.

I step up and finally

see the vastness beyond.

Coiled, my knees spring

to launch

my body down.

I ride the air’s waterfall;

I don’t fear the fall.

Someone will catch me.

They always do.

And if that fails, my shoulders

will ignite with ember-flower wings

to carry me back

where I belong.