Crooked House

It’s been an upside down,

twisting, curving, swirling, turning path

to this point.

Trails of thought, even serious

undoubtedly end in laughs

between us both.

We talk about everything and yet nothing,

say nothing and yet everything.

Our conversation can be in a look

or typed in a note,

and our peace

can be in a thousand words

one after the other.

 

Sketch time

Graphite under my nails,

smudges over my hands.

I’ve been sculpting with pencil

all to help understand

myself, and what my yellow-brick-road

is leading to, further than I can see,

it’s so far off that if I get there,

will I even be me?

Buzz

Excitement thrums in my heart.

Excitement and fear beating it out, neither winning, neither losing.

A new scenario. New faces, big voices, open ears.

With words only,

I calm them

And hold their attention as heartily as a new-born

Taking its first breath.

Foreshadow

And the antlers have been shed,

the fog receding

until clarity blinks back into view.

Looking over the valley

I can see where the river was birthed,

every droplet

flowing straight to the point we’re now at

and continuing on

fierce and full and forever

strong.

Calendar

Soft.

Eyes. Cheeks. Smile.

Friend.

Magic. Senses. Connection.

Touch.

Hugs. Pull. Honourable.

Trying.

Restraint. Crush. Guilt.

Accepted.

Blameless. Free. Release.

Kisses.

Fearful. Clumsy. Awkward.

Natural.

Warm. Meant. Decisive.

Love.

True. True. True.

 

The Bard

Each word is the gateway for another,

pathways opening whenever his tongue runs wild.

Flashes of white,

a grin that never falters

when he’s around me, even when the dark eats us up.

Every motion

has three words embedded in it,

a hallmark of our life and the future

we can’t know

yet will never fail to see.

Droplets of his thoughts cascade around us:

wetting the earth, the air

and refreshing the stale thoughts

clogging up my mind.

I cannot predict his tales,

and I do not wish to.

His muse is always keen to listen,

treading his rambling steps wherever they lead.

Us.

A flick of the fingers,

a twist of the path,

a flutter of pages

and an eruption of laughs.

 

A silk woven waistcoat,

a shuffle of cards,

a smile in your eyes,

and a melting of shards.

 

A morning of rambles,

a jump to the start,

a hand offered in friendship

and a wide, open heart.

 

A letter of truth,

an evening of reading,

a tear of happiness

and a stop to the bleeding.

 

 

Orienteering

Can we find our way

without following the carefully plotted routes of other people’s maps?

If our compass doesn’t point North,

but to somewhere else entirely?

 

If we take each step

hand in hand,

ignoring the suggestions fed to us from all sides

and being ourselves,

then our path may be as solid or fluid

as we like.

 

We won’t always have a destination.

But we’ll always have the journey.

Here We Are

So you want to know

what your closed eyes are missing?

 

Take my hand and I shall show you.

 

I’ll take you down to the stream

and let you dip your fingers in the cool water,

let you feel how the rocks break and curl the flow

and how the small fish

shy from your wake.

 

I’ll take you up hills and obscure paths,

hold your arms out wide

so you can be swept away by the wind

to fall easily among the long grasses and fallen catkins

that cheekily kiss your skin.

 

I’ll take you to forests where the rain has just eased

and the scent of wet earth and crisp leaves

rises to meet you with every stride,

while the birds flit overhead deep in song

and squirrels scamper up trees,

only to chitter angrily when you stray too close.

 

And after all that,

I’ll draw your hands to my face as I smile,

so you can feel each muscle lift, each crease of my eyes deepen

and feel the heat rise to my cheeks

as you finally blink awake

and look at me fully, gaze locked with mine.

 

Inked

My hands are circuit boards, lines inked like solder

to connect all the dots. A map of who I am

woven into a cloak so you can’t see me at all

unless I show you the route with red marker.

You might not want to look past my shield,

sometimes I don’t want you to, either.

It’s when I break down without knowing,

becoming still and silent, a signpost to nowhere,

that I need you to see. The me behind it all.