Poetry

Motes in the Blue

Its eyes peer into the bubbles that are lungs,
watching as they burst and refuse to gasp for air.
The ocean spills from my lips as I summon it, whale song,
to sweep me away from the surface,
the pigment dyeing its hide blue.
Sea mines pulse as it passes by, erupting into jellyfish clocks
that snatch at my heart and chest to shock me awake.Clear.

Smother me in sediment, wrap me in coral,
split my skin with the shadow of sunlight
and let the deep rush in.
Help me dissolve, evolve, return.

Certificate: sea foam.

Poetry

Dandelion Clock

On your fingertips dandelion stops, 12am

and the black hole in your belly grows.

You wonder if it will suck you in eventually.

 

1am, dandelion rises up and drifts to the windowsill

on your anxious breath. Look out, invisible bars.

 

By 2am your handprint is fixed into the glass. Dandelion dances

across your arm and down towards the fireplace.

It can feel the inhale of the chimney.

 

3am goes unnoticed as you cram your body up

the chimney after it, ignoring the flames engulfing your legs.

 

A sneeze confuses dandelion

as it trails back to watch you burn slowly,

4am chiming hollow in your ears.

 

Dandelion nests in your hair at 5am,

attempting to restart your brain

so you can see you have now become the fire.

 

The birds twitter when 6am arrives;

dandelion plays the music notes in the air

and leads you to the bath

where your blistered and charred skin

can be soothed by ice water.

 

7am, and it looks like you haven’t struggled at all.

Poetry

Whispers

In my sleep I keep drowning;

throat filling with water and vision dimming.

I struggle into consciousness, to find

that I still can’t breathe.

The density of the clouds floating above is thick

enough to crush my spirit.

At least that’s what it feels like,

before I have chance to take in,

to consider

who and what,

where and why.

 

And I see you.

Not for the first time.

Not for the second, third, fourth

(I could continue, but you know where I’m headed)

My eyes have cleared of a fog long plaguing them,

you walk beside me in dreams and my reality.

Even though you rarely swim,

you never hesitate to rescue me

from the rushing waters continually

threatening to wash me away.

Poetry

Wake up call

Uncurling from my core,

I rise up, pushing against my skeleton,

fingers, toes,

stretched out like tendrils,

seeking light and enthusiasm

that eludes this dark hour.

I drink deep chugs of air,

inflating my lungs to full capacity

and exhale with force,

rinsing out the shadows of the night

that sent me clawing at my pillow and muttering

to faceless, nameless

phantoms

until words held no meaning.

Poetry

Journeying

The train chugs by, rattling on the tracks

laid down by previous states of mind.

Past half-remembered dreams, a dozen nightmares

and rare wishes that just might have a chance to come true.

The passengers rise early, making their way

to the breakfast cart,

eager to see what’s on the menu:

a fresh glass of nostalgic tears,

a slice of bitter wisdom,

a bowl of aspirations

and a dusting of hope.

They tuck in, delighting

at the sky-blue pink of dawn outside.

Poetry

Dream Recount

The light is bright,

but it has a condescending voice sometimes.

It’s also yellow, one of my least favourite colours,

and when it goes on and on at me,

I’m just a little overwhelmed.

Then there’s the crash of shattering glass

as feet shuffle, shuffle nearer.

A petty argument over my shoulder,

and no one’s answering the phone;

as I ring and ring,

I might as well be calling the moon.

I think I’d get a faster response.

Oh, but now here you are, my friend.

You’re taking my hand?

Why? – it’s okay.

It is, isn’t it?

Okay, I mean. With you looking out for me.

You just one-upped the light.

Huh.

Thanks, buddy.

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

Water vapour, as I see it

The mist drifts in

across the moor.

A natural occurrence,

yet to those there to witness,

its creeping hands form

a heavy stone, which

though small, gives

a sudden punch

to the chest.

Tales long thought to be forgotten

come unbidden

to the mind,

whispers

of eyes and teeth

and a cold breath upon the neck.

But they are only whispers.

Told to steal the knotted wrap

from your warm,

foetal body.