Poetry

Destabilise

I sit at the side of the hill, and watch the people below.

The grass knows me so well

it encourages my skin to take root;

I’m set back, unnoticed.

 

I can breathe for myself.

 

The hill vanishes.

My backside hits

the concrete

hard.

 

My reflection shows a put-out woman.

My heart encloses the child,

overwhelmed by the rushing, raging world.

 

It beats.

Poetry

See From Above

If your view is clouded, obstructed

or you are simply tired of looking,

climb up

so that all the things you fear

and feel are so big they cannot be ignored

become little more than figurines and building blocks,

a child’s game of heroes and villains

where a gentle flick

is all it takes to knock the bad guys to the ground

and a shuffle and re-stacking of pieces

can rebuild what’s been broken.

Poetry

Root Ball

I’m standing on a platform

that I used to think was my world.

Every so often, I would see glimmers off in the distance and wonder

what they were.

Now those glimmers have extended roots

to latch onto my platform, so that it is not a platform anymore

but part of a greater whole that I never knew existed.

I can now walk to them

any time I wish

and sink into their greeting, unafraid

of judgement, knowing above all that I’m accepted

and always will be.

Poetry

Let’s chat

Like being slit with a scalpel

I find myself open and bleeding,

fractured into shards of agate,

my layers exposed. All

I’m doing is speaking, one

to one. My palms are saunas.

My gaze fixed to your mouth,

not your eyes. I know

I need to speak. I must.

A stone mouth doesn’t make it easy.

Poetry

Phone line

I ask you where your eyes

find light – your mouth

falls down the back wall

to the receiver, hanging

limp by its cord, mumbling

love and family like trickles of water

flowing into a drain. Not

a downpour. Perhaps

I should have asked

a different question.

One that you’re more comfortable with?

 

Poetry

Cardiac Arrest

The flat edge hits my nose.

Sharp. Unwanted.

Thump.

‘An evening of heart’,

the print on my face reads.

Thump.

I’m flung waist-deep into the quadrants –

which door will I choose?

Thump.

Careful! Don’t flood them,

they might burst and leak

Thump.

red wine on the prize rug.

Sweet-talk them. Coax out

Thump.

the opaque scent of mind.

Keep reaching for the string.

Thump.

Really, it’s an advert

for a radio station’s new show.

Thump.

Oh, I see.

What happens next?

Thump.

Thump thump thump.

Thump thump.

Thump.