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 #27

summer

god knows i suffer in the summer.
the season doesn't invigorate me,
i find it depleting.
the new light disorients me
and fulminating nature overwhelms me.
the hazy air, thick with cut grass
and pollen, like an invisible army
endlessly assaulting my eyes and nose.

it all begins in the spring,
equally as melancholic.
i sweat all day,
but by night i am freezing.
no sweater or shoe seem right
for this temperamental time of year.

every blow of my life
has taken place in warm weather.
the jovial laughter in
chiffon summer dresses
only remind me of the losses,
betrayals and disappointment.

the summertime inertia
of waking up in bleached surroundings
and having the distinct feeling
of being inevitably pushed forward.

but today is the weekend,
i do not have to leave the house.
i can wake up and not get up.
there is nothing better.

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 #21

unspoken

slowly, i move from room to room.
standing. motionless.
staring into the space.
only my shadow moves with changing light.
i want to lie down.

i boil the kettle for tea,
that buys me time.
a watched kettle never boils.
the familiar screeching jolts me back;
that didn't feel long at all.

a lump move upwards inside -
best to ignore it.
giving it attention gives it strength,
allowing it escape
as a scream.
or something worse.

what a waste.
all those unsaid words.
i had them well-planned.
your ears remain innocent.

what sort of power
can silence
without a gag?
suffocated - 
but still breathing.
perhaps you're a magician
to pull such a clever trick.
i'm convinced of your kindness,
whilst i watch you sharpen your knives. 

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 #18

will you chase away my sorrow,
that haunts me in the night?
the courage i must borrow
to escape misery and strife.
the darkness it covers me
like a blanket of despair.
the weight does suffocate me
as i claw and grasp for air.
the moon gives off no light;
the stars have been blacked out.
the fear does steal my sight
leaving just pain and doubt.
come play me your sweet music
that lulls me back to sleep.
the only thing that calms me,
your lullaby to keep.

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 #7

forgotten

like a forgotten museum,
having remained hidden 
and undisturbed.

i was stepping back in time.
everything veiled in a misty film
caused by years of damp.

dozens of books 
and a variety of objects; 
pieces of furniture,
remained exactly as left.

my nose grew irritated
and itched insatiably. 
the pungent, cellar like aroma - 
musty, rotten, damp.
my tongue tasted the mould.

the wooden floor felt spongy
and bounced beneath my feet,
a spring in every step
as i walked inside.

his desk as he left it.
letters strewn, half written.
in the corner, a framed photograph.
so he did love, after all.