Poetry

Rain

We can walk together along the path

of browns and golds, an orange here and there,

we can chat about how things are –

home, jobs, family, hobbies –

we can look up at the darkening sky,

glee in our eyes,

and stick out our tongues

ready to catch those first drops

weeping down from the clouds.

 

Or we could laugh at the time you fell

in that shallow puddle,

which actually turned out to be quite deep.

Poetry

Choices, cupboards and cats

When the holes appear in your headspace, apparent as the fur on an ash black feline, dare you ask what ingredients are missing? What supplies, though planned, have gone astray? The meaning is lost, you can see it on their faces; clarification is needed. You thought it was there – honest, you did – but they say time over time, that it’s only there in your mind.

Poetry

A slap across the face

Struck like stone

hitting those sieving trays

You get at Legoland, hunting

For fool’s gold.

All gold is fool’s gold to me, the wish to claim

It just as childish as that game.

People get offended when you call them that.

Because no-one is allowed to be like that anymore.
 

Poetry, Uncategorized

Haste

They called it that when they missed

The  chance

To say goodbye

Business is business, after all

Everything measured in a tiny flask

That swirls its mixture around with

Every stride.

I love you

Going unsaid because the rules say

It must.

 

Poetry

Estimated time of arrival: unknown

Sitting on the empty sofa in the waiting room

Waiting

To be called;

Palms sweaty, throat small, mind cogs grinding

Every eventuality.

Not the doctor’s, not the dentist, not even

The school nurse’s office.

The sofa is not a sofa.

It is a stark white chair outside your

Parents’ study,

And you are waiting

Waiting

For them to notice.

 

 

Poetry

Aftermath

An hourglass drains gently,

The sand filling the gaps in her mind.

Flashes  of  trees,  the tang

Of burnt rubber tyres,

The man in the road,

Arms  outstretched  in a forced

Gesture of  greeting.

Death’s thin, precise blade cutting  deep  into

His chest.

 

 

Poetry

Ushering footsteps

The darkness rides the waves of sweat

hidden deep under the layers

resting against your neck.

 

The building cold, a stir of breath,

the air tingles with impatience

while anxiety threatens the grievous theft.

 

A cold stone slab presents itself,

a shuffle of feet, tipping the balance

forward as the clock hits twelve.

 

Visions are strong in this line of work,

hands beckon from beneath

where the bodies quietly lurk.

 

Quiet now, quiet, they surely whisper

remember the promise you made

with your dying younger sister.

 

The darkness rides the waves of sweat

hidden deep under the layers

resting against your neck.

 

Poetry

Crepuscular (in response to an interview with Neil Gaiman)

Sometimes, my eyes feel like

swollen pearls

liquefying down my cheeks.

I stumble, blind,

from the doors of famous

enough,

over to the council of too

famous, or famous too.

My voice can fill

but no longer be heard.

I must consider if,

simply,

I am tomorrow’s forgotten things.

 

The interview that inspired this can be found here

Poetry

A slight roll.

Heads on shoulders:

pebbles atop broken

rocks,

half-carved into

torsos, arms, necks.

They roll down the ravine.

Suicide, you would think.

It’s not.

Instead – life.

A chip here,

a dent there.

They reach the bottom

battered.

Some unrecognizable.

They reach the bottom.

No longer caring

to go back to the top.