Poetry

Brilliant morning

I see the edge of the world as the water spills over and falls

splashing my fingers as I turn on the tap

 

The mist in the house smells of everyone but me

I suppose it would, for who knows their own smell?

 

I watch parts of myself spiral down the drain

no longer needed for the travels ahead

 

I hum as my toes sink into the grass, morning frost

making it soft crystal needles

 

I am awake now

Poetry

See From Above

If your view is clouded, obstructed

or you are simply tired of looking,

climb up

so that all the things you fear

and feel are so big they cannot be ignored

become little more than figurines and building blocks,

a child’s game of heroes and villains

where a gentle flick

is all it takes to knock the bad guys to the ground

and a shuffle and re-stacking of pieces

can rebuild what’s been broken.

Poetry

Cover to cover

Hiding in the in-between,

tucked into corners and balancing on ends,

hanging from cliff faces

only to fall

into a change of pace,

your viewpoint shifts

as the plot thickens around your inner self.

You’re running wild, free,

almost off the page –

and then you hit the wall,

the final cover falling back into place,

locking you in once more.

 

Poetry

The Chattering Skull

Eyes sunken, black holes cackling

pot-bubbling like, a cacophony of hahas

every time the shower curtain is pulled back

to reveal yourself to this particular audience.

The toothy grin, polished white noggin

so familiar, so present. Again.

Hollow inside, impenetrable outside.

Petrified criticism if there ever was.