Poetry

Sycamore

I remember those seeds that used to spin as they fell

catching them in my open palm

and throwing them up again, enchanted by kinetics.

I would liken myself to those seeds, hold out my arms

and spin until the world came to match

the rush of input driving through my synapses.

Because rarely did those sounds, those scents

those constantly moving bodies jostling, jeering,

crashing against me

make sense until my speed matched them.

And if I fell, it didn’t matter.

The ground was always there to catch me,

soft grass cupping my cheek.

Poetry

Home tree

In the palms of my hands I hold a pile of soil,

a seedling sprouts from the centre,

green and reaching, reaching

for the sun.

But I collected the seed from which it grew

from its future self.

A tree that stands grand enough

to be the heart of a house

and ever a monument

to the love of the couple

who have made it their home.

Poetry

Tiny mite

Regarding Pip, the love-fruit dream of a bookish mind who haunts the dust speckles papering the bookcases – duck-egg pimples on the fingertips. It lurks, d r i f t i n g between SOLID TEXT and verse rising on inhales to nostrils intent on devouring must and ragged ink. Only to be sneezed out into the particle storm; sunlight is the only pair of spectacles strong enough to see them fight the plastic dinosaurs battling for shelf space on the brain.

Poetry

All potted up

I have a little seedling,

it’s just sprouted green leaves,

it waves about in the wind

and makes our cat sneeze.

 

I want to give it a home,

so I’ve found a neat brown pot

and filled it with earth

all the way to the top.

 

I’ll make a small hole

using an old lollipop stick

and put my seedling in it

so the stem grows nice and thick.

 

Then for the important bit,

I’ll need to give it a drink.

I heard rainwater’s best,

not just water from the sink.

 

After that, I’ll have to wait

and care for it with love,

only then will it flower

from its tender buds.