Poetry

Picture Thinking

The mere mention of an object, hint of an idea, suggestion of a concept

and my mind has plastered it all over my thinking space:

magazine cut-outs, posters, video stills,

reels of film. Solid as the wall in front of me,

just behind my eyes. It’s odd that it’s invisible to you.

Elephants come charging in from The Jungle Book,

pink cousins visiting from Dumbo,

onyx bead eyes from a National Geographic photo I once saw

and a few others dancing around up there, with the word ELEPHANT

in grey, wrinkled lettering floating above their heads.

No one ever talks about how they think,

I didn’t realise this associative image gallery

wasn’t the norm.

Poetry

Mind River

It trickles through my veins, pouring

across synapses, moonlight swirled

with mother of pearl

that pools in the corners of my eyes.

Here, in my hand, goading my muscles

to grasp the pen and shape the smoke

with definite, crisp strokes before

those snippet thoughts think to flee.

Poetry

Hooping

I step inside the circle,

raise it above my head

feeling the muscles of my shoulders and upper

arms. I can turn

clockwise

or anticlockwise,

connect it with my hips,

my back, my legs, my chest.

My heart. And

my mind.

It stops a moment after I stop,

lingering for just that fraction longer

as if posing the question ‘Shall I

go on?’

Poetry

Times

You can lean

against many things in life.

The sturdy and immoving wall;

Ideas which stretch across lifetimes, continents, cultures;

Friends who were once strangers.

And then

there are those photographs

of diferent times,

times we took for granted

And times we thought

were hard before we knew

what that real─║y meant.

Poetry

Dust and dreams

Staying alive as a whole person

when we are all made

of glowing particles of expression

straining

to break free

is quite a wonder, really.

 

All these dreams, all these thoughts

of bounding off into the depths of

 

of what?

 

The image in my head

is a great plain of grasses, rivers,

books, wildlife;

everything I love.

But that is not the depths of anything.

It’s only little me.

Poetry

A box full of kindling

You start by cross-dressing,

trying out every hat

and pant-suit

you can lay your snatching hands on.

Taking a nip

here and there

without even knowing,

pollinating the dry wood

with a peppering of ideas

and choosing to tempt

Pandora with the wild taste

of the unwritten.

An input always needs an output;

you present the light-child

who carries it.