Poetry

Your legs are crossed, a solid base

to ponder the long hours we spend apart,

seeking a way to change the shape

of what the timelines hold.

 

You watch the mountains change their caps,

the saplings grow wider,

see the decay of walls

and erection of new ones.

 

Eyes stare back at you,

weary, withered, hopeful.

They think you have the answer.

They think your shoulders are right to take the weight.

 

Inside, you are crumbling.

Inside, the water is building,

pushing ever against the dam.

The clock’s ticking is incessant.

 

One day you will break,

and they will accept how human you are.

Flooding everyone with the rawness.

By then, I will return,

and mend the hurts leaching you away.

Poetry

Outside In

Her fingernails have grown into long yellow keys,

toenails rusted locks that refuse to open.

Her eyes are not windows into her soul,

but gateways to the outside of her circular thinking.

Cobwebs make up her thick woolens, and as she waits

on a black three-legged stool to be chosen,

she pulls a blanket of fog around her shoulders

to keep the dry out.

Weather complains that she is messing with his schedule again.

 

Poetry

Choices, cupboards and cats

When the holes appear in your headspace, apparent as the fur on an ash black feline, dare you ask what ingredients are missing? What supplies, though planned, have gone astray? The meaning is lost, you can see it on their faces; clarification is needed. You thought it was there – honest, you did – but they say time over time, that it’s only there in your mind.

Poetry

Empty nest

The cages swing on silent

chains of air

despite the stillness in the house.

Faces in every window, every mirror, every vase polished to perfection.

Order. Gaunt order.

Detected by the undetectable,

watched by a nest of eyes

invisible to the spectrum.

Poetry

The Teapot Trial

Lined up on the kitchen worktop

are three teapots.

One red.

One blue.

One yellow.

 

In the red

a flame licks the inside,

burning without wick or fuel.

I hold my hand over the spout

where the heat

warms

my purpling fingers.

 

I move to the blue.

Inside that,

a grey cloud swirls around,

pouring rain from the spout.

I gather it up,

wetting my peeling lips.

 

I look to the yellow.

I know what’s inside without touching.

A single seed, freshly sprouted,

waits for me.

I mustn’t touch.

I must touch.

 

If I give in,

I’ll live again.

 

But living

means emotions,

hurts and loves that I can’t control.

 

I’m not ready.

Not yet.