Poetry

Inner Art

Choose your canvas carefully,

not too large it might swamp you,

not too small so your vision spills from the sides.

Measure it, carefully, then study its texture.

Find all the bumps, irregularities

and note them down

so you can take extra care. You may

even wish to make them a feature,

and if not, then certainly don’t let them hinder

your self-worth.

Next, you must sketch out your idea,

adding to it once you’ve gotten used to each part.

Once it’s all clear to you,

you can add colour, add certainty.

Gently layer it on.

When the piece is finished, step back

and know that everyone will view it differently,

with no opinion weighing more than another.

Be proud of it, and let it show.

 

Poetry

If, If, If

If a matter is discussed and a plan settled,

does a question need to be posed

and an answer given?

 

If a shadow becomes more than just the absence of light,

growing solid, dependable, sentient,

shouldn’t it be given its own life?

 

If a half finds itself wondering if it’ll ever meet its other,

knowing some depend on it not doing so

and some hoping it will,

how can it live knowing one day

it might have to choose?

 

We puzzle scenarios to make sense of the world,

yet we neglect our own hearts

and are blind to ourselves.

Poetry

From brain to paper

The image is stamped over and over in your mind,

the press never runs out of ink, drawing from a well that

refuses to appear when you actively call it.

 

The blueprints are solid, you can touch them

until it’s time to build.

 

Then they slip away, silently on the breeze

as the foundations are being laid.

 

You chase them, following every turn

whether it leads to rivers or hills, the top

of a rainbow or the boiling pot at the bottom,

 

only to find they’ve expanded somewhat

and become richer.

Poetry

Train of thought

The skies are dark, the chugging

rising from a growl into a beating drum

as the tracks curve up to the sky.

The clouds shift into giant birds, spreading their wings

to chase away the smog and

drift beside the train as it gathers speed

heading to its conclusion

that has yet to be built.

Poetry

Bearer

it’s just a small thing.

a trinket.

overlooked in a rushing crowd

but noticed instantly by family.

I wonder if they’d be surprised

to see it there,

making rainbows skip about the walls

as it caught the light

while I would sit, fingers wrapped around a tea cup,

in front of the window

facing them.

you’d be next to me,

teeth as bright as the gem you gave me

in a smile that i treasure even more.

Poetry

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.

Poetry

Ant Nest

Consider life as an ant.

What would you see of the world then?

 

Would you take more notice of the dry, parched grass

that has no bend, just blockades your path and leaves you no shade

from the unexpected sun?

See the browning leaves that may act as boats in those rare puddles,

safe passage across

to that place where

the sweat left by humans as they lie on the ground

permeates into the earth;

 

they try to find peace in a life that attempts to prevent it at every turn.

You don’t mind, you can feast on the litter and wasted food

they leave behind

when they finally go back to their cubes,

hoping that the memory of their break will last them

until the next time.

 

You know more than most about hurdles

and being trodden on by authoritative boots.

It doesn’t stop you, though.

You carry on,

facing every barrier

you come across and finding the best way to pass it.

Always lifting weights greater than yourself.

 

You’re not too proud to ask for help,

in fact

you actively seek it

so as not to get overwhelmed.

 

Yes, consider life as an ant.

Maybe that will change your view.

Poetry

Mind River

It trickles through my veins, pouring

across synapses, moonlight swirled

with mother of pearl

that pools in the corners of my eyes.

Here, in my hand, goading my muscles

to grasp the pen and shape the smoke

with definite, crisp strokes before

those snippet thoughts think to flee.

Poetry

To-do List

The postman arrives

with the to-do list of doom

holding it out like the poison it is,

dripping its case for me to assess

as I take it from his trembling hands.

Dust off those forgotten tomes.

Arrange by publication date,

then colour. Colour that milk

with stronger tea. Write emails.

Phone doctors. Book appointments with clients.

Phone your mother.

Oh no.

Phone your mother.

I knew this was coming.

Phone your mother.

No.

Phone. Your. Mother.

No, please!

Fine. But you know I’ll be back tomorrow.