Poetry

Attached

Enter: a shadow, the basement

of a person, painted solid by their ledger.

Hushing for silence

that doesn’t exist.

The audience sees it clearly under the bright stage lights,

but its owner is blind.

They feel so transparent, they’re not even sure they have a shadow anymore.

It sneaks up behind

and photographs them, panoramic view,

and leaves the print at their feet.

Evidence. Opaque as can be.

Poetry

Remnants

Most of them were now bones, picked white by crows,

only a lock or two of hair would tell.

 

No motion at all could convince the trapeze, swinging ever higher,

that it was nearing the zenith of its arc.

But the hunter with silver fur and hungry eyes lay ready,

the full moon its guide.

 

He would have bluebells waiting by the thousand,

painted clay cups that collected his luminescent tears,

frozen and pressed into precious stone –

hoping to replace the ammonite clasped in her hand.

 

He could grant wishes for her, bend himself to her will,

but always in a way that would cause havoc.

Outshining the fire,

a delicate flower began to bloom.

Poetry

Occurrence

It’s midnight again and the clock is striking. It’s chiming, ding, ring, outside my door.

 

It’s midnight again and the colours are brightening. They’re painting, stroke, line, on the walls.

 

It’s midnight again and the shadows are evolving. They’re dancing, hop, leap, at the foot of my bed.

 

It’s midnight again and the ghosts are appearing. They’re singing, fa, la, by the window.

 

It’s midnight again and the whispers are growing. They’re chattering, snicker, bicker, by my head.

 

It’s past midnight now, and the house is quiet. Not a sound, breath, sniff, to be heard.

Poetry

Opaque

What’s in a shadow? Can we

take it apart, unzip it and spill

its innards on the ground?

Do you think there’ll be bits of memory,

chunks of ourselves that we’ve tried to bury?

You say a shadow is just a space

that the light can’t get to.

That’s what I mean. If

we bury something, light can’t

get to it. You might be right. I

might be, too.

Poetry

Kivuli

What are shadows made of

when they look at you,

flickering in candlelight

or standing bold against

the rays of the sun?

Our silent companions

we forget are there.

Those who experience every part

of us, even the parts

we think no one can see.

Our constant. Our comrade.

Present, without judgement,

without thought.

 

We think.

Poetry

Cubed

Inside the neat black cube

lies a silver heart.

It has never felt the breath of air

that comes from an open box.

 

For all its years,

the metal is worn

only slightly;

if it were of flora,

then it would be as green

as the newest seedling

and have experienced

even less.

 

A sudden jolt

jars the black cube.

It falls from its perch

down

to the floor.

The heart doesn’t know

what to do.

Its world is changing.

The cube is broken;

air and light finally leak in.