Poetry

A photograph of a bench by a lake

The bench is open to any body

contemplating the cool glass before it.

It sees the day and the night, a breeding

ground for those lost souls who have been guided

falsely by the clouds.

It sits in the one patch of sun breaking through the shadows

playing bait. It knows some

will wish to be swallowed up.

Poetry

Role Play

Shuffling papers shakes up memories

into cinematic strips

that play on auto after every introduction.

Arranged this way,

how do we know they’re real anymore?

Morphed over time, nipped and tucked,

folded, welded, enshrined and entombed,

buried fast or brought forwards by warm words

from different perspectives.

We are made of stories.

We are stories.

Every Once Upon A Time

threaded into our minds through and through.

Poetry

The weight on our shoulders

Is not a burden to bear.

It is unexpected in so many ways, yet

there was never a chance for us to avoid it:

the path seeming tangent but twisting and connecting just in time.

Train tracks flipped by a single switch

that altered the course of everything.

Solid ground to stand on, legs strengthened by hours walking

and arms willing to hold no matter the babble.

Forging days into weeks,

this is how it has been.

Outside, they do not see it. Outside, they see haste.

But those eyes are untrained in our ways

to warp

that mysterious river

simply by welcoming it with open hearts.

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

Mind Games

When you think of a brain –

all those fleshy, pinkish

folds, a bit like the goo

from Ghost Busters 2 –

do you ever see the star map inside?

All those electric connections

zig-zagging their way

across the galaxy

(no, not the chocolate bar,

tempting as it is).

Can you feel each little jump

from synapse to synapse,

like Mario in invincible mode?

I don’t all the time. But

sometimes I do, and I wonder

if that star map is the same as mine,

or different.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Mountain climbing

I can see the top of the stairs.

It doesn’t look far.

 

Just like a mountain doesn’t look that tall

until you stand

by its roots

gazing up at the sheer

enormity

of it, and all your hopes

skitter off along the horizon,

with barely a wave goodbye.

 

But I know I’m not facing a mountain.

I’m facing fifteen rectangular boxes

stacked vertically yet veering forwards

to create an upwards path.

 

Should I convince myself,

yet again,

that my wasted muscles will let me walk

to the top?

 

I don’t know.

 

Maybe I should just tackle

the stairs like a mountain –

my mountain –

and climb.

 

I think I could do that.

If I try.

Poetry

Always overhead

The umbrella looks down at me, taking in the shape of my head, the faint line of my hair parting and the curve of my neck as I stare at the puddle by my feet. In it, I can see the grey sky clearing. The umbrella’s work is almost done. In fact, the light, misty drops that tickle its top are barely enough to worry about. Yet the umbrella is rooted to my hand. Perhaps, like I once needed it, it now needs me.