Poetry

Skeleton

‘Hold out your hands,’ she says

and places the silver key on my palms,

it fits across both perfectly. ‘It can

open any door you choose, anywhere.

Keep it close, always.’

 

So I swallow the key. Safe in my belly

it stays, and safe from my memory

until every door I face

declares it’s locked.

 

It can’t be. It can’t be.

 

The memory stirs and I try to regurgitate.

It doesn’t work, and the doors laugh.

 

From inside me, the key calls out.

Unlock.

 

The doors are silenced by my voice.

I swallowed the key

and became it.

 

Poetry

Grave Digger

it approaches,

dusk creeping into my skin

but i’m not ready to sleep yet.

i can’t be petrified and forget

the smell of petrichor

as i walk through the long grass

in the mornings.

if it were another’s words

there would be no question that i would fight

but the fractal, small measurement of tar

blocking my ability

to raise fists,

forces me to kneel down and weep

as earth is piled over me.

Poetry

Grimlock

Me, Grimlock

I can take all of you on

shoulder force, jaw ready

No problem I can’t smash away

 

Me, Grimlock

I can be on your side

watch me crunch, watch me maul

I’m the behemoth you want

 

Me, Grimlock

I’ve got nothing to hide

I’ll bare my teeth, eyes glowing

Tell me your war stories

or I’ll spin some for you

 

Me, Grimlock

I’ll seek you out

You can’t match my strength

rough or not, your meagre force

won’t survive very long

 

 

Poetry

Finer things

Is it a diamond you seek?

Cut and shaped with princess blood,

adding to the value?

Pure, elegant, transparent.

Polished to perfection, mirroring

what you wish to see?

Should I congratulate myself for thinking

you do not care for those

neatly fractured inside, tarnished, imperfect,

but diamonds none the less?

You never wanted to see the wild flowers.

Only those cultivated over years

by expert growers and displayed by florists

to show their most enticing features.

But look how much life

those wild flowers bring.

That’s what I’d like to say, yet it’s too late.

Your eyes have turned to stone.

Poetry

Main Theme

My foot comes down on the path

and I am flooded with waves of green.

Grasses, trees, leaves all washing towards me,

and I am a single spark of red on the landscape,

the inside of me just as different

as the outside.

I am destined

for enormous power, so they say,

and I have felt it and seen the sprites

that flock to me because of it.

Yet it’s too much – too much at once – I can’t hold on.

It slips away or I slip away,

the link eroding just as quickly as it forms.

The heat of the moment

gone, my body spent, and now my only choice is to lie

still, watching the world.

Poetry

Magic!

I have a ball of magic,

right here in my hand,

and if I wish upon it,

I can create enormous

dunes of sand.

 

Or whole fields of vibrant poppies

that wave to me in the wind,

and I can even make a robot

by magicking together

my collection of used tins.

 

Sometimes I sit and wonder,

‘What do I have this power for?’

Then a flood of ideas fill my head

and all I can think of

is creating more!