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.

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Silken

A strand shines white,

a glimmer on the darkened street.

The moonlight has touched it,

but its fellows remain that rich brown

hanging down to your shoulders.

Each one a piece of your thoughts,

a ribbon tied fast to the building blocks

that make you.

Old strands gift their being to others,

and then leave.

Fresh beginnings grow in their stead.

Crooked House

It’s been an upside down,

twisting, curving, swirling, turning path

to this point.

Trails of thought, even serious

undoubtedly end in laughs

between us both.

We talk about everything and yet nothing,

say nothing and yet everything.

Our conversation can be in a look

or typed in a note,

and our peace

can be in a thousand words

one after the other.

 

Testing. Testing.

It may be nothing.

A whisper.

A shadow.

A breeze.

 

It may be a nameless,

shapeless mass

that is only the ghost of a ghost,

an unwelcome spectre, but a harmless one.

 

It may be. It may be.

I wonder

I gather my thoughts in a wicker basket,

cover them over and stroll into the bluebell woods.

 

Always blue. Not cold blue. Warm blue.

 

Blue as fresh air and cackling creeks.

Of the lips of creatures stopping to drink,

unguarded, just for a moment.

 

The soft carpet under my toes

wriggles with ideas,

half-formed will o’ wisps

that jump up eagerly to my pensive basket.

 

One at a time, little ones.

 

When I cannot carry any more,

I sing a song to quiet them,

lulling them to sleep,

and journey back to my desk,

pen in hand.

 

My work begins.

Oracle of Ages

The trees always smiled when I entered the forest.

I bet you think that’s

odd.

Trees can’t smile.

But they can;

look closely.

 

With their slight shimmering

of branches,

they always asked why it was so long

between

 

visits.

 

I would reply the same way each time.

‘So I may never take this peace

and solace for granted.

It is easy for moments like this

to go unappreciated

until the time we can share them

no more.’

 

Now, trees are ageless,

pensive beings,

who see much loss in their lifetimes.

Yet no matter how they try,

the fleeting, finicky

minds of humans

are quite beyond them.

 

All the council they gave was, ‘Surely

the wonder of a moment

pales beside the wonder of an age?’

Water Nymph

Sometimes I think I’m water.

Well, technically a substantial portion of me is,

but I’m talking about,

you know,

free flowing water.

The kind that freezes when it’s cold,

or pools in shallow dips when it rains,

hangs around in the air

to fluff up

that girl’s neatly straightened hair.

Except it isn’t my form that changes.

It’s my mood,

my entire attitude

to life.

I’m not complaining, just

observing really.

Once I thought it’d be good to be fire.

Then the wind caught my candle

and blew it out.

Palmistry

If we all had our deepest, truest  attribute

etched onto our palms, what would yours be?

Kindness? Never judging, listening to the full story

and helping in whatever way you can?

Bravery? Never backing down, no matter what the odds,

swallowing your fear because there are more important things?

Or is it something simpler, yet not so simple at all?

A concept many take for granted, yet twice as many don’t have?

Self-acceptance. To know yourself, to be okay with it,

but also knowing that wanting to change is fine too,

if you don’t like who you are.

Because accepting that

is to recognise what it means

to be you.

Just you.

Mind Games

When you think of a brain –

all those fleshy, pinkish

folds, a bit like the goo

from Ghost Busters 2 –

do you ever see the star map inside?

All those electric connections

zig-zagging their way

across the galaxy

(no, not the chocolate bar,

tempting as it is).

Can you feel each little jump

from synapse to synapse,

like Mario in invincible mode?

I don’t all the time. But

sometimes I do, and I wonder

if that star map is the same as mine,

or different.

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.