• writings

    nursing fear

    Because little things make her happy, little things also make her unhappy. She, who finds kernels of doubt easily.

    And the sun sees her pottering around in a phantom nursery, watering those seedlings in her mind. In his yellow mercy, he averts his eye and lets the sky turn cloudy, so she cannot conjure up their growth.

    But she potters on anyway, growing paler day by day, because the sun, even the sun – she thinks – has turned away.

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  • dark poems,  featured,  poems

    along the way

    Wide open spaces, join me there.
    Lie beside me a while, breathe in the air.
    I’ll breathe with you, I’ll do my best,
    As I remember sobs and whimpering gasps.

    i can’t touch you, i never will
    you don’t know me, stranger in the field
    but had you come by, two hours before
    things would have been so different, so pure

    i wouldn’t have screamed those sounds of despair
    wouldn’t have known i would beg for air
    wouldn’t have shared the intimacy of red
    as i gurgled in terror, and my gashed chest bled

    i would have met you, become your friend
    you’d have given me a ride, you’d be my godsend
    and i would have been your bride someday
    our future, unlocked, by my going astray

    but his car came first, in the decided universe
    apart, yet together, our paths have diverged
    i linger just to meet you, because i had seen
    post-life – our love, all that we could have been

    Do you see the ladybug, perched on that leaf?
    Do you wonder at its fresh redness, do you smell the sin?
    Perhaps you’re growing uneasy, you stand to go
    I don’t blame you, my would-have-been lover, not I, no.

    I hear your breath grow ragged, I hear your keys turn
    At the spatter of ladybugs, my raw inelegance.
    I hear your strangled cry, I hear the tires screech,
    I look at you, as my body hardens in a ditch.

     

    Goodbye stranger, reclaim your sunshine
    I’ll always be your dead girl, your gruesome find.

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  • poems

    stuck

    I met a gummy bird, a small sticky thing
    in the wasteland of my bigger, stickier dream.

    Something licked my toes; I looked only to see
    a furry prawn ingratiating itself with me.

    I crouched to pet it, the gentle, whiskered shrimp
    with its length unfurled; crustless, body uncrimped.

    Next I looked, instead of one bird, there were two
    and when I felt the dribble harden, I knew

    to be alone was anathema to them
    and glue-licked me was the prawn’s wish for a friend.

    I guess I didn’t mind. I’ve been stuck for years
    this collage is home, this painting my curse.

    In time eternal, the beginning became
    through countless dreams, a dream itself, a refrain:

     

    I met a gummy bird, a small sticky thing
    in the wasteland of my bigger, stickier dream.

     

    wasteland

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  • personal

    incomplete

    Out of a can of fruit and nuts, I happened to pick half a hazelnut. Not broken, you understand, just a whole that was a half, for unbroken brown skin covered it.

    And I think that must be how we all are, incomplete wholes. Short of confidence, for some; too much frustration, for others. How do I navigate this life so when I leave it, I’m complete? Can I live it, complete?

    I wonder what being whole is like. Perhaps that nut was put there to remind me that life is beautiful and fascinating because it is incomplete, and trying to complete ourselves is that by which we become complete.

    Because we would be working towards personal fulfilment.

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  • poems

    sparkling confidence

    i head for work, rich with jewels
    but heading home, i’m bare
    for i tend to eat up my accoutrements
    with a starving man’s flair.

    so i crush cherries on my cheeks
    spray nectar in the air
    then run under the hanging droplets, so that
    they’d fall into my hair.

    next i fasten sugar loops to both ears
    and slip a mini-donut over my finger
    i quickly put on an icing necklace,
    then shut the refrigerator.

    i head for work, now rich with candy
    though, heading home, i’ll be just as bare
    because what i do to earn my keep
    has me starving, needing repair.

    but at least my jewellery’s safe now
    and when i see them sparkle at night
    i have time to shine a little
    and feel everything’s quite all right.

     

    wear them, eat them
    wear them, eat them
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  • poems

    come to the laurel tree

    Sit under the laurel tree, feel free to dream
    of candy coloured toes and happy lil things.
    Pull one out to suck – better, give them all away
    for once pulled out, they’ll turn black anyway.

    The idea’s strange, yes, like pigs eating ham
    but darkness and light are bread
    and I’m a walking jar of jam.

    I love the whimsical, I love the macabre
    and sandwiches needn’t any sort of stub.
    So come sit with me, jam, butter and brie
    we’ll have fun on our baked dough mats,
    loafing under the tree.

    Whee!

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