Poetry

Mind Song

We float around in our little heads,

conjuring images from things long said

and if the circuit board

should ever be damaged

wiping our memories

both sweet and savage,

we know that time often heals

with due care, sensible practices and steady meals.

Even if we’re unsure what we’re seeking

we can still approach the stars with proper greeting.

Poetry

Ant Nest

Consider life as an ant.

What would you see of the world then?

 

Would you take more notice of the dry, parched grass

that has no bend, just blockades your path and leaves you no shade

from the unexpected sun?

See the browning leaves that may act as boats in those rare puddles,

safe passage across

to that place where

the sweat left by humans as they lie on the ground

permeates into the earth;

 

they try to find peace in a life that attempts to prevent it at every turn.

You don’t mind, you can feast on the litter and wasted food

they leave behind

when they finally go back to their cubes,

hoping that the memory of their break will last them

until the next time.

 

You know more than most about hurdles

and being trodden on by authoritative boots.

It doesn’t stop you, though.

You carry on,

facing every barrier

you come across and finding the best way to pass it.

Always lifting weights greater than yourself.

 

You’re not too proud to ask for help,

in fact

you actively seek it

so as not to get overwhelmed.

 

Yes, consider life as an ant.

Maybe that will change your view.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Peanuts

I challenge you to a game of peanuts,

palm to palm we start, fingers locked

and who will twist, who will bend,

who will break first?

 

I challenge you to a game of chess,

mind to mind we sit, fingers twitching

and who will lead, who will block,

who will fall first?

 

I challenge you to a game of codes,

eye to eye we stand, fingers drumming,

and who will seek, who will find,

who will crack first?

 

I challenge you to a game of words,

toe to toe we begin, fingers pointing,

and who will blabber, who will stumble,

who will cry out first?

Poetry

We’ve got mail

Would you like some tea

with that milk? You’d say slyly

regarding my pale cuppa,

resting your head idly against the bookcase

searching for the storms.

My mouth would twitch,

flicking between smile and frown.

The window always opened and closed

at that point, seemingly of

its own accord

and a stack of papers would flurry in

to land by our outstretched legs.

What do we have today, then?

You’d muse, lifting a sheet

to your face. Ah, of course;

Ghost Writers. Let’s help them

find their stories, shall we?

And with that, we’d begin.

 

Poetry

Until the die read five or eight

I feel the monsoon sweating down my back,

see the darting tongues of vibrant purple blossoms

and the wrapping vines of sun-kissed waxy blooms.

 

I race the crocodiles down the stream,

run with the wild beasts who stampede over

burial grounds where their ancestors patiently wait.

 

I see the figurines move along their twisted paths

eyeing the telling jewel as their prize,

but the hunter guards it with savage delight.

 

A roll of the die is all it will take to freeze

the years of waiting to the far reaches of mind,

but will it read a five or an eight?

Poetry

Of shadows and memory-hunters

Passing hands connect. Briefly. Branching out into a thousand minds, forcing roots around synapses. Shadows flit around: drooling mouths, gleaming eyes. Adrenaline beats in every cell, spilling out through the leaves that quiver as the prey’s sweat-filled fur touches their tips. Great lakes fill the indents left on the muddy ground, imprinted by weighted hearts. Seeking.

Poetry

Stargazer

You will see Orion in me. In my rather too much leg. Tucked under neck, toes sticking out towards rainbow galaxies. They itch to track you, unfurling from the spine, down and down and down. Slinky jumping from the arrow head, pointed at your wordy heart. Apocalypse: the constellations shriek. They don’t want to save the world. They just hate the ugly patch our orbit takes. A screwed up sheet in a universal waste paper basket. You will see Orion in me. Orion is no longer. Orion is me.

Poetry

Cone Home

I pluck a pine cone

from the floor of pines

 

and peek

at the tiny world

 

between the cone’s

teeth. I break apart

 

the layers,

snapping them

 

with the same satisfaction

as breaking up

 

a bar of chocolate,

piece by piece.

 

I’m swallowed whole,

taking up the heart

 

of an ant. The people

inside greet me

 

as one of their own,

feeding me

 

nectar

from the cone’s core.

 

I’d like to say

thanks and sorry

 

for the trouble;

doing so would reveal

 

I’m not one of them

at all, just a stranger

 

who walks in the woods

gathering pine cones.