Poetry

Crisp Pages

I open my journal, touch

the fibre rich pages with my pen      and pause.

How do I word the thoughts

in    my   head?

L e t t e r s  skip around, a merry jig

and I’m struck by how many writings

have come before this,

before me.

Surely those hands   did not falter   so?

Or perhaps they did,

and persevered anyway.

Poetry

Set aside

There are rocks at my feet,

all folded and crumpled,

fossilised words of untold errors.

Lists filling scrolls lie about the room,

checking for correct procedures

and slips in elegant form.

Tirelessly, I work through the night

organising scores

to serve as light music to others

who dream

of shelves of paper notes

holding keys to doors

hidden from most.

Poetry

Ink

It spills out through my veins

my corneas, fingernails,

bleeding from my nose

to splash the page I’m fixed to.

I don’t find it suffocating,

only cold. But

it warms every now and then

when the words demand it

for their dinner.

I like those times.

I like to feed them.