poem #31

the moon

he was like the moon,
cold and distant - 
but always within reach.
she would watch him
from the bottom of her well.
she often heard laughter
echoing through her chamber.
the stone walls that encircled
glistened with blue light;
small comfort.
she would sometimes sing;
that unsettled him,
shattering his illusions
of a perfect world.
the rope had been cut - 
long ago.
she knew it had been him.
the neglected forest,
wild and overgrown,
kept her a secret - 
never to be found.

poem #25

ivy part II

what was it that you said to me about the moon,
how it had the magnitude to capture our shadows?
were those the exact words that you used?
i can remember the story of the princess,
who became trapped in the moon's reflection
on the surface of the lake.
we each recall the story differently - 
you argue that she was a queen;
i do not think that it matters.

we wander into the forest.
the silence was uncomfortable;
i hesitate just for a moment.
you gently take my hand
and guide me from the path.
i will never find my way back.

the air is thick and pungent,
i'm suffocated.
i can taste wet soil; 
the stench of damp rot and decay.
'not much further,' you say.
i did not know you had a plan.

we came upon a well,
the crumbling stone;
overgrown with ivy.
i felt the wave of unease.
'look down it,' 
i did not hesitate to obey.
it's so deep, is there something down there?
you ask me to imagine falling in.
but that is a game i will not play.

i do not know at what point
you let go of my hand.
it must have been when i turned;
you had already gone.

poem #24

shame

i look to you
for validation.
to do something.
or nothing.

to take it back forever;
press the reverse button.

we handle it,
by not handling it,
says the voice.

my anxiety hops inside;
like dried beans on a table
jumping during an earthquake.
a familiar tightening,
a squeezing grip - 
a closed fist in my chest.

i feel
there is something
i should be doing.

i seek forgiveness 
that i do not deserve.

i remember you,
and worry what you’ll think. 

poem #23

the hierophant

a solitary hermit am i,
in a dark cave i do reside,
whilst they come to me in strides,
so i might flatter all their pride,
with the wisdom i’ve acquired.

so long ago since i became,
a much sort after humble sage,
who dwells here in his lonely cage,
whilst the people send me endless praise,
for their spirits that i do raise.

they seek me always for advice,
on love, vocation and their life.
they want not truth nor painful strife,
for truth can cut just like a knife,
so i just sing them sweet delights. 

“you sir, i see, shall be a king,
and adorn bright golden bejewelled rings.”
to these falsehoods they will so cling,
and hang off every word i sing;
oh the happiness my words can bring.

merrily they’ll dance and skip away,
without making a second’s delay,
to tell the others of their day,
and how the fates have finally swayed,
and life’s debt to them shall soon be paid.

oh when will these small humans learn,
life is not responsible for their return,
on everything that is not earned,
and into my old mind be burned,
all the falsehoods that i have churned. 

poem #20

chariot

i stand upon a chariot
pulled by two beasts
that i cannot unite.
when they fight,
we must stop.

so much for riding in unnoticed.
my neck and shoulders hurt;
straining against the gold chains.

"move forwards!"
i plead.
they ignore me;
remaining at odds.

i could not see a way out.
the trees had been moving again.
i could not see a way out.
the snow fell heavily;
the darkness smothered us.

"why can't i have what i want?"
because it is not yours,
said the voice.
accept it.
i would not.

they started to fight.
shredding throats 
with scythe like claws.
i doubled over in pain,
never wanting to get up.

"stop hurting us!"
the beasts roared.
i whipped them all the harder.
eventually they collapsed;
exhausted and bloody,
foaming at the mouth.
i lay down next to them,
weeping.

a knight galloped towards us,
riding a gleaming white unicorn.
he offered me his hand,
when i went to take it
he laughed and then scorned
before disappearing entirely.
my poor beasts howled.

i stroked their fur
gently dressing the wounds.
"we'll try again tomorrow."
and slowly they fell asleep,
safe in the relief. 

poem #19

valentine


i found a vase
with a flower
i could not 
keep alive.
i watered it
with falling tears,
it still wilted
and cried.
i sunned it 
with fake smiles,
the petals continued
to fall.
i placed it on
the windowsill
so it might
see outside.
but still the
colour faded,
my flower did
slowly die.

poem #17

kintsugi

now, i anticipate the melancholy.

when it fell apart
every bit of it broke.
i realised i was trying
so hard to hold shards
together.
as i held on 
desperately,
i started to forget 
the shape
it used to be.

my arms ached
but i held on.
how could i do 
what i needed to
whilst trying to maintain
structural integrity.

and then i let go.
every piece came apart
and fell to the floor.
as i let them drop
i could hear the sounds
of several shatters
hitting the ground.

it was over...

or so i believed.

i returned to the fragments,
strewn across the room,
and considered them.
each piece unique.
point to one,
i'll tell you a story.

i laughed.
i cried.

i started dreaming.
what could i build?
i found a pot of gold
and got to work.

it might not hold
(i hope it doesn't)
i may decide to change,
what i decide right now.

poem #16

the roses we find

such a delicate flower
he held in his hand,
the petals he crushed
as if to take stand.
their fragrance was sweet
and felt like a cry;
so gentle and vulnerable,
the roses we find.

do flowers have spirits,
perhaps even a soul?
nobody has asked this
when cutting them all.
who are we to assume,
as arrogant as we are,
that we alone have feelings
when we destroy and command.

poem #14

hoard

come and find me
if you can!
amongst all the stuff
that makes up my land.
past the shoes
and piles of clothes
that haven’t been worn
since days of old.

come if you dare
into my castle -
can you find me,
amidst all the parcels?
turn a sharp left
past all those books
that are no longer read,
or warrant a look.

hunt through those bags
for which i have many,
and whom for i wasted
my hard earned money.
beyond all the storage
and cupboards of stuff,
you’ll find some more shit
and hoards of unloved.

poem #13

i know what burns within
those pages,
i know the secrets that 
you hide.
i know the pain that
follows ages,
i know what lurks
inside.