Poetry

Eyes

Eyes on a stranger’s face. Even blind

they can frame a person’s thoughts – windows in and out

are still windows if they’re glazed or frosted.

Seeing isn’t the only thing they can do.

 

Looking directly might hurt, like the sun. It’s okay

if you feel that way, distance and focus points help.

 

They might wash over you; a gentle wave on the coast.

More often than not, they will judge you, even if it’s unintentional.

Society might as well have us drink poison for all the filth we’re fed.

We can dress them up, paint them pretty colours

or frame them like precious art.

 

We can ignore them if they linger too long.

 

We can learn their greeting, learn their reluctance,

learn that everything and nothing might be hidden behind them.

Poetry

Estimated time of arrival: unknown

Sitting on the empty sofa in the waiting room

Waiting

To be called;

Palms sweaty, throat small, mind cogs grinding

Every eventuality.

Not the doctor’s, not the dentist, not even

The school nurse’s office.

The sofa is not a sofa.

It is a stark white chair outside your

Parents’ study,

And you are waiting

Waiting

For them to notice.

 

 

Poetry

Cubed

Inside the neat black cube

lies a silver heart.

It has never felt the breath of air

that comes from an open box.

 

For all its years,

the metal is worn

only slightly;

if it were of flora,

then it would be as green

as the newest seedling

and have experienced

even less.

 

A sudden jolt

jars the black cube.

It falls from its perch

down

to the floor.

The heart doesn’t know

what to do.

Its world is changing.

The cube is broken;

air and light finally leak in.