Poetry

The kings of our past

Your footprints are swamped by his

no matter how old you get, how tall you grow or how wise.

Because the ghosts will always contort the mirror

so you appear small, a mere cub

hiding in his father’s shadow.

Poetry

Solidified

Ice becomes its glaze,

injected just under the surface to spread and fill every

hairline fracture.

Yet deep inside the clay is ragged, gripping on to every last piece

of soul that passes through it,

the desire for its insides to reflect its outer

hopelessly flawed from the outset.

Poetry

Firefly

You’ve got lights glowing by your feet.

They’re trying to help you find the path,

so stop avoiding them.

They don’t appreciate being hopped over.

Or stepped on.

In fact, they don’t like being by your feet at all.

They’d rather be at the same level as you,

but your ego is a barrier

they can’t get past.

 

One of them is starting to fade.

Will you let it extinguish?

Poetry

Nova

There are stars.

 

Forming in every moment, every breath,

every beat of a living heart.

Even as one dies, another is born.

But these stars

spend most of their time

invisible —

or perhaps it is simply that we

lack the ability to see them

in our narrow, bittersweet view

of reality; reality

that is only such

because the vast majority believe it

to be so.

Yet if we’re observant,

if we’re true

and if we’re willing to lower our wards

just for the briefest of moments,

these stars can creep in

to our lives

and change our perspectives

at times

when we may think all sight is lost.

And if they’re particularly strong

they’ll never leave.

They’ll be beside you forever,

helping you create your very own star

that in turn

can light their way.

Poetry

Spin Time

Circle the sun: your heart, your head.

Catch the vortex around your neck;

squeeze it, control it.

 

Ride the motion – you are not trapped,

throw the hoop away if it starts to shackle,

grip it tight and pizza-toss it high.

 

Don’t be afraid of the spiral,

let the spiral be afraid of you.

Poetry

Little demon

There’s a snide gremlin in my head.

Picking up my faults, saying the stars will never greet me,

the oceans never rise to meet me,

nor the clouds ever offer to carry me up

to kiss the moon.

When it drones on and on, pulling and twisting

every nerve in my body to get a reaction,

I swear at it and plough on with my day.

It won’t bring me down.

Poetry

The looking glasses

Books are mirrors, some say

and I know that some of my

friends, when they look in them,

always see their reflection

staring back, as they’ve seen

since they were kids. Then

there are some, like me

who only see their reflection

when it’s blown up to such a size

that every pore, every pimple

and every uncertain smile

is visible, the words

behind the mirror irrelevant.

I even know people who

have never seen their reflections

on the mirror pages.

They keep thinking their reflections

don’t matter, maybe they’re broken.

But I know better. It’s

the mirrors that are broken,

and one day soon, they will

all be replaced with new ones,

so everyone can see themselves

in those precious tomes.

 

Poetry

Opening credits

Pretending it’s okay

not to be cast

as the main character,

to always be left behind

while others race to the moon

and bathe in its shimmering

light.

 

That’s you all over.

 

I’ve watched you

calmly accepting

year after year

day after day

hour after hour

that you’re second best.

 

I can’t hold back any longer.

 

I reach for the mirror,

grasping it firmly,

and force you to look

into it.

 

You do.

 

Your eyes meet mine.

You realise that you don’t want

to

race

to the moon, anyway.

 

You strap rockets to your feet

and fly

instead,

capturing its light

in your hands

to sculpt

the moon’s tears

one by one,

each different to the last.

 

People pick them up where they land,

marveling at their uniqueness.

 

Finally, you’re proud

of who you are.

 

Finally, I’m proud

of who I am.