Wednesday, 29 September 2010


I live with eyes of wonder
and a rainbow in my hand.
In my clothes of heavy gray
that, street wise, camouflage me,
I walk with my rainbow cupped
in one gentle, creased palm.
As my companions run by,
mouths wide open and fists clenched,
I keep my eyes on my hands
one careful step at a time.
Though their pressure's hard to fight
and their paths seem fast and sure,
I live with eyes of wonder
and a rainbow in my hand.

Photo by Tatielle.
Although I couldn't find the photo that was my initial inspiration, this one was beautiful and fitted the poem well.

Saturday, 20 March 2010

New beginning.

Think of me as a spark.
A beginning of a fire that will add light
And not take away life.
Nourish me when I come, held close to your heart.
Let me listen to your life beat,
Let me find solace and peace
And my own, soft body before I leave yours.

Think of me as a spark.
Do not fear me when I come.
I represent a change you cannot foresee.
I bring fears and anxiety to your surface,
I start such emotions and passion in your chest,
I mirror failings and breaks in your eyes.
An uncertainty in self follows me.
But I bring a warmth you cannot foretell.

Your eyes will look into mine
And your delicacy will scare me.

I’ll think of you as a spark.
The start of a new thread,
tied tight to a still-green, freshly constructed loom.
I am used to my own tapestry;
the colours are familiar and comforting.
And by then so pleased with my recent addition;
The pattern intertwining so deeply with mine.
I will grow accustomed to your shade;
The shiny-bright new beauty born from my own hue.

I’ll think of you as a spark.
A beginning of a fire that will add light
And bring me such warmth.
I will nourish you when you come, held close to my heart,
And when I meet you
Your eyes will look into mine
And your delicacy will scare me.
But I promise not to look away.

Friday, 12 March 2010


Fumble furtive strumpet.
Your costume cannot hide your heart.
Like a cup-full of wine it overflows
As they tear your halves apart.

In a turquoise dress of silky cloth
Mist veils they can see through.
Maskless, the mirror shows a face
That killed off all those who knew.

Girl, your skill is nonpareil.
Your inheritance: fame and pride.
Your next one waits in a magenta motor-coach,
As in fern-curled hands you hide.

(I'm not that impressed with this one - done in a hurry and it shows. It feels too empty.)

Monday, 1 March 2010

Charon by H. Koppdelaney

I passed you along the way.
Despite your tired face
and lined hands
you still walk this road.
Slow and steady,
your pack upon your back.

Would you not like to rest?
Watch your step, my dear.
Do not let yourself fall.
Mind out for the
overtaking traveller along the way.
Ah, no, you cannot stop
me leaving you behind.
Don’t fret, my love.
I will lay you out on the cold ground.

Your hands uncurled and unfurled.
Your body lay back with a relief
that released your muscles
and let your limbs relax.
Your bag lies discarded and forgotten.

Ah, my dear, I can make you forget
this pain and this hurt and this ache.
I can take your hand
and pass you up,
or pass you down.
Whichever way you go after this,
my dear, I am your turning point.
You sink as you fall.
You let go and your eyes close.
I shall embrace you.
Let me kiss you away.
No, do not fear, my love,
I come to everyone.
This may only be a beginning.
You are laid out on the cold ground.

I passed you along the way.
I cannot rest;
I am the only one
that keeps walking
along this road called time.
And I leave all behind me.


Friday, 26 February 2010

Photo hide and seek.

Image by Sepulture

“You have the digital,
I’ll take the manual.”
Because she’s better at it, you see.
The wooden walls creak
when you’re trying to be quiet.
Stocking slippers snag
on the rough floor boards.
She can hear the drag of my jeans,
the soul of my breath,
the beat of my blood.
Finger on the trigger,
light, tight and trembling.
Blurred headlights, sweeping shadows
across the ceiling, make you jump.
Her room is quiet-dark.
The bathroom is empty,
but as you turn, you catch your reflection.
Mess of hair and shock of eyes
in a blue-grey tint.
Caught you.
And in the mirror
I see her movement,
hidden behind cupboard doors.
The scent of her perfume
as she inches, slow,
the wooden slats shiver
and I wait, unnoticed,
for the chance to take.
Flick, flash, finish.
She took the manual and
I had the digital.
She thought she was better at it, you see.


Thursday, 18 February 2010

All over the map

One glance and the frozen case of my poise patters
to the floor like shattered eggshells.
It doesn’t take a kiss to give me my fairytale transformation:
Frog to fanciful female.
Like a frosted fiction cloak woven in decaying darkness,
my dull aura suddenly blazes crimson red.
I cannot help but glow.

Not a muttered word stored,
trembling hot, in the footlocker of my mind.
Nor a panic desperate name whispered
in the dead of night.
Instead a lubricious crown placed on a golden head.
Red lips. Hacksaw serrated stare.
Nails screeching across my eager welcome smile.
My crystal wish-granted in pieces.
Little match girl.

Wednesday, 3 February 2010

Narrative wallpaper.

"Another Pennsylvania sunset
backed down the local mountain
spraying the colors of a streetfighter’s face
onto the narrative wallpaper of a boy’s bedroom"

From “The Homeowner’s Prayer,” David Berman


Soft yielding.
Palms flat against gentle padding.
Body curved in a foetal comfort.
Shift and the sheets tangle and strangle.

Can you see what I see,
drifting a frozen finger across my chaotic walls.
Under its touch the eyes of my people
twinkle and smile. They watch my hands.
Tap and stroke. Twitch and stretch.

Heavy warmth.
Feet tucked in rough blankets.
Weight sunk into enclosing layers.
Sigh and the breath clouds and shimmers.

I see her light
flight and flow along my beloveds.
I watch them blink and laugh,
pose and dance. A story for each face.
Brought to life, my narrative wallpaper.

Thursday, 28 January 2010

By Sepulture {Mood Disorder}

It starts here.

What he sees is a throne.
Scarlet bright, with a backdrop of gold.
Polished arms, and a cushion of velvet.

What he sees is a goddess.
Pale soft, with a sheen of peach.
Bronze hair, and a shining crown.

What he sees is a beauty.
Smile light, with a loving eye.
Gift accepted, and a hand extended.

It starts here.

Walking backwards.

A broken reminder of a broken life.
No face to show.
Look, his legs can’t hold him and he
A mocking crookedness in the straight limbs
reminds him a small child in a bright dress
she balances her laugh on the three legs
and in her triumph

His hands are cold. Dead eyes and
lonely soul with no reminder. Remainder
not even whole.
His spark fires and he stands.
Behind him, with nothing to hold it,
the chair totters, and