Poetry

Lightning Source

Where does it come from? teapot swirling with crackling anger

while its brother gargles out ideas and hurls them to the ground

just to analyse the way the leaves smoke and blacken after the impact.

 

The teacup is held to catch the droplets and cool them,

before watering the dry

and collecting the glass trees from the sand.

 

Ghostly, the surface shines to mirror,

its seed long carried away like beads

on a collapsing table.

Poetry

Uncorked

Black swirls on the brain. Links opening to catch stray ringlets of thought that otherwise would spring as solar flares from the mouth; raw, dangerous, too bright for most to look at. Stacked, formulated, ready for processing. That’s how they want it. That’s how they accept it. Are you sure? What if the sun needs to flare?