Poetry

Well-shaped Sand (draft)

Purple mist wisps down

shaded dunes, creeping hands

mottling the yellow grains,

tumbling into bustling cities

ready to snatch at the wealth

of a merchant’s wares:

sugared dates, pistachios,

beads and scarves and

a thousand other riches

to flavour sips of life.

Lit by the lamp’s flicker,

illusions are stamped

over a tide of eyes,

but never reach the corners

filled  with emptiness

bottled tightly into fancy glass.

Poetry

Ice on Lips (draft)

The splitting of the glass caused the earth

to cry out; caused the earth to cry out

with the agony of the darkest mottles

taking root in hearts and eyes,

framed into windows and tailored spectacles.

A vision of wrinkles, dark splotches cast

into marbled nature, now teach warped

learning to craft cunning thoughts.

Caught! The attention of ice, snowflakes

skitter down, plucking a kiss from

the lips of her cunning prey, wrapping

cool breath tightly about to mask

the journey through frozen skies.

Poetry

Pictures on the Hearth (draft)

Of glass slippers

and long carriage rides:

dreams are made

of soot.

 

But who shall

seek the owner

of the gleaming crystal’s

foot?

 

Some say a prince,

tall and fair,

will search the long,

dark night.

 

Yet the wearer waits

not for a prince, but

a princess to come

in sight.

 

Together they will

cast aside stray

whispers of the

old.

 

Searching stars overhead

and gleaming lands

forgotten but long

foretold.

Poetry

The Pulse of a Puppet’s String (draft)

A heart of wood,

not easily turned,

yet crafted with

tides of love.

Resilient to all

afflictions, desiring

that which many dismiss:

humanity. Flesh.

The drumming of ruby

rivers through a

blue-green maze,

a pillow inflated

with air inside

the kinetic cavity.

But porous grain

and rounded knots

only become sinewed

in the wake

of honesty and

its brother,

truth.

Poetry

Through the woods (draft)

I see you standing there,

my friend, waiting to

observe the one in red

 

riding through the woods

on a stead of illusion.

She gallops confidently

 

without care, oblivious

to the thud of hooves

disturbing their den.

 

You wish to protect her,

but why should you

expend such energy

 

for one who will never

know and never care

of your existence?

Poetry

Concealed (draft)

In the forest

we’ll hide the babe,

safe among the thorns,

but to raise her kind

of nature and sound mind,

a price to pay we must

conform:

To give up all our

fairy dust, so those

curious of soul

won’t turn our way and

turn this poor child’s heart

black as toxic

coal.

We must turn our backs

on all we know

and learn afresh despite

the pain, sweeping away

identity with the swiftness

brought by one fell

bite.

Poetry

Of apples and hearts (draft)

A weight of years until the apple seed grows,

wrapped in the anger of a thousand

wrongs,

yet once the tree matures and

swells with fat, succulent

globes,

the juice extracted is so sweet

that to savour it must surely

poison.

Polishing the red skin makes it glow

as vibrant a ruby as the dying

heart;

the white one takes a bite

and falls down a grave of

spirals.

But for all its power,

not even that can break the molten

hurt

residing in the chest of the gardener.

 

Poetry

The one who owns the rose (draft)

The sliding shriek of cutlery on fine bone china,

a cup falling down to chip on the hard stone.

Its pattern is ruined, but who cares?

It’s just a cup.

 

The ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece

gathering dust until the particles clog its inner workings.

They grind to a halt, but who cares?

It’s just a clock.

 

The candelabra placed on a table set for one,

its elegant white candles unburnt and dry.

Its golden finish is tarnished, but who cares?

It’s just a candelabra.

 

The rose, cut so long ago from its bush,

each year its waxy, ruby petals fade even more.

They fall one by one, but who cares?

He does.

 

And now he panics.