Poetry

A story of trees

Like two phoenixes who have been mated their whole, long lives

we will rise up from our ashes

and carve out space for ourselves

in dark, lichen covered trunks.

Our arms will wrap around each other

in an eternal hug

which will become an eden for birds and squirrels and bees.

From the strength and solidness of our roots

we will remain side by side forever,

entangled in a shower of leaves and blossom.

 

Poetry

A bard’s touch

I took my heart out of its familiar cage and realised

the rose quartz it was carved from had turned clear.

I watered it with food dye and rose petals,

patience and strawberry jam.

It refused to change back.

 

You noticed this distilling and saw my distress,

examining its mineral structure to suggest

things that might return its colour.

 

It worked, but instead of becoming rose,

it morphed permanently from quartz

into the deepest ruby.

The same carat as your heart.

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

Snatched Moment in a Long Day

Toes touching, noses pressed close,

magnets in our hearts.

The clock is ticking,

great eyes of the sly shadow

on our backs,

a whisper away from

coiling its tendrils around our ankles

to drag us apart.

We form our circle, arm in arm,

our energy like salt

casting the cursed presence aside.

A beat more.

A beat more, and our lips touch.

A beat more, and we are.

We are, we are, we are.

Nothing can break us.

Poetry

Cosy Armchair

You say my laughter is infectious, but I say

yours is too.

And when that childish excitement fills your eyes

when you’ve spotted something

from your treasure chest of interests,

my heart is filled with your delight.

And I know,

know

you’re the one.

Alike in our passion, we express ourselves

plainly to each other,

and subtly to everyone else.

We have no embarrassment,

we simply are.

There’s no denying it,

we can’t avoid being us.

Happiness is just a crinkle of the eyes away at all times.

Poetry

Black Cobwebs

You’re hurting.

I can see it as plain

as if you were holding up a sign to the world

letting them know

that being trodden on

and lied to – however well-intentioned – is not okay.

Except everyone, regardless of vision,

is blind to it.

It takes until the tears roll down

for them to understand

you can’t

keep trudging away everyday,

that care-free positive smile –

weighing several tonnes –

hiding your real thoughts.

Pretending, pretending, pretending

everything is fine.

No rest. No sleep. No insights.

It’s wounding you.

Slathering you in red;

not blood.

Anger. Pain. Sorrow.

And love.

Because you love,

because you claimed a degree of happiness

that gives the illusion you have distanced

yourself from the circle

and don’t want to be distracted,

there’s guilt.

Needless guilt.

Your choice was never to be left in the dark.

But I have shared the same

and understand why it’s there.

I hate it.

I hate how it wraps you in dark threads and cocoons you.

The only thing I can do

is hold your hand, drink your words

and let you lean on me.

It’s nowhere near enough.

Poetry

Trickster Timing

It’s a strange thing, time.

Hours can feel like days

when you have something to look forward to,

someone to go home to,

to hold, to cherish.

 

When you’re with them, days

pass like minutes,

heartbeats of a hummingbird,

rolling the week along

so that once more you have to part.

 

Time, that careful trickster,

changes again,

making every second drag,

as if taking extra delight in the stab wounds

separation

causes you.

Poetry

The Meaning Will Present Itself

Okay, okay

I’m here now, present.

No, not a present for you.

A present for me. For myself

to accept

and hold out to the world.

 

I have lowered my shield.

I am tired of raising it; my arms are weary.

I don’t want to be touched, or cuddled, or kissed –

until I do.

And if I do,

know that it is because you

are one of the few I love,

one of the few

I can suit up with

and ride beside into battle.

 

I will not stand beside anyone who seeks to leech me,

who leans on me

without ever letting me lean on them.

I favour balance,

I favour truth,

I favour trust.

 

No apologies will be made

if you seek to unmask me

and are devastated by the results.

 

I am here. I am present.

I am my truest self.

Poetry

Hidden Flowers

It’s time to flower now.

You’ve been waiting a long time, I know.

And it’s scary, revealing who you really are.

 

It is.

 

You don’t know how people will perceive you.

 

They’ll wonder

which you

is really you.

 

Which you

is the one they’ll like most.

 

For those who love the illusion,

your blooms may be devastating.

For those who really want to see you,

your blooms

will be breathtaking.

 

So flower,

true and strong.

Poetry

Visions

‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’

When you’re a creative,

full of ideas wider and richer

than the colour spectrum,

the question is always asked with curiosity and just a hint

of amusement, as if they know that somehow your dreams will be unattainable

even before listening

to what they are.

And then they will pretend, at first,

that they haven’t judged you.

They’ll smile and give an encouraging nod,

before injecting the poison

you thought your were immune to.

‘You won’t make any money doing that.’

As if dreams are valid only

if they make a jingle in your purse.

Doubt creeps in.

Are you sure that’s what you want to do?

It’s not worth anything. A waste of time.

A waste of you.

 

No.

 

No, you say,

reminded every day by other creatives

that doing what you love

is definitely worth something.

The fact that it puts a smile on your face

and makes your heart sing

is worth something.

You are worth something.

Maybe not in coin.

That can be attained in other ways,

part-time jobs to keep you fed and watered.

But to keep you alive,

to keep you you —

only listening to yourself will do that.

Claim yourself.

Say, ‘I am a writer.

I am a writer, and if the only person I write for is me,

then that is still fine.

I am a writer,

and I enjoy being me.’