Monday, November 17, 2014
Driving for the sake of driving.
Just me, him, and music.
Miles and miles of full circles
leading us back to the start.
I remember the electricity of his hand on my leg.
The shiver of my arm slipped through his.
Nervous, comfortable, impatient.
Neon arrows guided us.
While sinking suns warmed our windows.
Words were sparse.
I was learning about his silence.
These days his car is my car.
We've traded speed for safety.
These days we have two precious passengers.
But sometimes, when it's dark inside,
too dark to see their sleeping, silent, shapes.
Sometimes, I look at the side of his face,
and we're us again.
Just me, him, and music.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
on a Sunday afternoon,
hands calloused, covered with oil,
copper grease, dirt.
He was hunched over an engine,
staring intently at valves, pistons,
assessing which part had gone wrong,
made it stop.
He's a fixer,
always repairing the broken things
that surround him,
trying to make them work.
I lay my head on his chest
Deep inside, the clock ticks,
slow and strong.
I hear each second disappear
as we lie in the half-light
of another rainy day.
It never rains but it pours,
hits the windows,
floods the garden,
wets us through.
There are parts inside me
he cannot fix.
So he holds my hand
and he tells me
I'm not really broken.
she told him.
But she played it anyway,
stared into the water as it fell
in pools of grey that puddled round the door.
As the drums beat down
the deluge waned,
the birds and blue appeared again.
And the rain ended
before the song.
Friday, February 10, 2012
When love so long rationed, was coldly cast off, thrown away.
But she found him, falling apart,
and she loved his broken pieces,
and he saw her unravelling heart,
and he told her it was perfect.
And they wondered if two friends,
could make do and mend,
stitch back together,
make new again,
their worn out old lives.
So he caught her, coming undone,
tried to fix her fraying edges.
And she scrubbed his threadbare eyes, wiped the stains away,
made them bright enough to light their darkest days.
And they make do and mend,
stitch back together,
make new again,
their worn out old lives.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
that makes us whole again,
that makes us one again,
that makes us,
There’s something in the trees,
that moves my soul again,
that wakes the words inside
I thought I’d lost.
For I must cease my chatter
in the hush of ancient woods.
There’s no place here for noisy minds.
And as he holds my hand and
leads me further in,
I feel it fall,
I leave it all behind.
We pick our path through twisted roots
in shade that shelters us from more than sun.
And something in the breeze, the leaves, the fragrant air,
dispels the heaviness we carried here,
our chains undone.
There's something in the trees,
that makes things right again,
that makes me write again.
I trail my branches through the soil.
I carve my heart in moss.
wild things with wings.
He leaps into the still and silent sky,
to murder my metaphors.
He holds them in his mouth a while,
then lays them out before me on the floor.
Death is his gift.
Yet still I hope for the things with feathers.
Still I cradle them. Their tiny hearts beat rhythms in my hand.
Still I carry them outside, and stroke their heads and place them on the ground.
With whispered apologies I retreat,
to watch them from the window,
to pray they'll fly away.
Sometimes they do.
Sometimes we bury them.
As cold and stiff as cardboard boxes.
Crosses made from twigs pushed into soil
beneath the bushes they were born in.
And I scream at him and scold him,
lock him in and shut him out,
no longer welcome on my knee, my bed, his head pushed in my palm.
And I hate him but I love him though I hate what he has done.
And before too long he's back beside me, his face against my own.
And I forgive and he forgets
and balance is restored.
Then he brings me things,
wild things with wings,
and lays them on the floor.
He just wants to share a silence.
She flaps and she falls,
in a downward spiral to shame the flight of birds.
She's always longing to be heard.
Her words pour once more into the air,
unnoticed. 'Sometimes the world is a deaf machine'.
She sings in her car as she drives to work,
'I wish I knew how, it would feel, to be free,
I wish I could break, all the chains holding me'.
She stares at the sky in a momentary daze,
her head filled with aviary conversations.
Then she switches off
the engine and the music
Monday, May 09, 2011
one thousand birds suspended,
like ours, I write my secret
wish on the wings of a crane.
raging river of remnants,
of metal and mud, this flood
drowns all sounds, but the earth’s roar.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
and a radiator burning my legs, as I stare
into the black square behind the curtain.
Home is your arms around me after another long day.
Home is you and me, talking about everything and nothing
as we flick through a thousand channels on the wall
and squash up on the small, tired sofa.
Home is a cat on a windowsill.
Home is the sound of you in the kitchen, cursing and laughing,
and me in a hot bath, soaking in the sound of Nina Simone.
Home is all the things we love, wrapped up safe.
Home is not a cage.
Home is a nest.
Home is you and me, cosy, cuddling, in our comfy bed
and the silence of words that don’t need to be said,
for they’re known.
You and me,
Monday, January 10, 2011
I strip away the lights and watch the gloom creep back into the corner.
I'll miss the flickering glow that lit our winter afternoons.
I wish the light could linger longer, make the magic last.
But on the sixth, tradition says, the season ends, the spirit fades,
We pack the holiday away and put it in the loft.
And under the weight of a January sky
we carry our wilted tree outside.
The ghost of Christmas, passed.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
lean in to drop their words in bright red flurries.
Silent sentences, unheard by speeding cars.
I watch one almost curtsey to me,
slender limbs in silhouette.
And I forget the fifty things that filled my head,
that chased me from my Sunday bed.
I need this distance.
Miles of asphalt moving me away from Monday.
Driving far enough to hide me from the glare
of screens and stares and acronyms.
Out here I can resist the grip of blackest boredom
burrowing through my brain to leave me numb.
I photograph each precious moment,
trees and sea and sky and him.
And when I must return to that dark shadow of existence,
I keep the pictures near enough to glimpse,
my bliss, my hope, my small resistance.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
and slip down secret snakes,
that wait for me
to miss a step,
I lose my grip,
on scales as smooth as silver tongues,
that spit me out,
But when in hell, as Winston says,
you keep on going,
never knowing where each fateful step will lead.
And so I carry on, across the board,
ignored by ladder climbers, clutching, grabbing,
pushing, to the top.
I quietly endure the little boxes,
fingers crossed for lucky numbers
to release me from this trap.
And as I wait my turn,
I scrawl my words on empty spaces,
trying hard to find the meaning
in this place of fate and chance.
While I wander, wondering why and when,
I hear the serpents hiss again and
soon I’m sliding,
right back to the start.
It always ends with this beginning.
Not quite losing, not quite winning.
Being a good girl makes no difference
in a game where chaos rules.
Guess I’ll face it with a grin, never giving in.
I close my eyes
and shake it twice.
I roll the dice.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
down by the river.
Slow was her only pace.
The sun warmed her face
and the top of her head
as she read back old poems
and hoped the words might tempt her muse.
She listened to birds
and watched wind blow through trees
as mothers rushed ducklings downstream.
Dog walkers passed her
and insects encroached
and old people stood on the bridge
staring silently, down.
She'd never stood still here before,
never paused to watch everything else move instead,
the shaking of jade blades,
the swaying of nettles,
the kaleidoscope rippling beside her,
and the rustling of white paper pages
that urged her to write something wonderful,
and another attempt...
It was a slow day.
Down by the river he walked with his dog and his anger unleashed.
Two black beasts surged ahead.
His eyes didn't see the sun slowly setting.
His ears didn't hear the silence of dusk.
His skin didn't feel the stillness surround him.
Yet somehow they soothed him.
By the river's edge, he turned back.
One shadow rushed to his side,
the other dissolved in the dark.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
and she sees from the swell of blue in his eyes,
he's going under.
Each explanation she offers, it ruptures him.
Every apology, a breach in his bow.
She's shunned into silence, too late.
She'd tried to refrain, to contain what she knew,
but her heart had escaped through her mouth once again,
and she sang like a siren.
Now she swims to him through screaming squalls
and pulls him to the shore.
Loose lips sink ships, she says,
but a kiss can save our souls.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Gravewalker goosebumps shiver on skin.
For one, slow, second,
sky stands still.
it hits the windows.
All around, grey ghosts surround the house.
Rap, rap, rapping,
bony knuckles on double-glazed glass.
Urgent voices moan and murmur,
whispering through broken brick.
One loose latch is rattling somewhere.
One small gap, one lock unlocked.
Quickly run before it comes.
Fumbling fingers must be fast.
And throw the window open wide
and call the cold to come inside.
Now watch the rain wet windowsills
and hear the heavens howling through the decorated hall.
Each gust adjusts the curtains neatly tied
and blasts the dust, that hides on every shiny surface.
Such stagnant air so suddenly alive, possessed by pressure,
woken by the chill of this ill-wind.
Each silent corner deafened by the din
of outside elements within.
The light changes.
Now throw the window open wide
and let the weather in.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
a hushed rush of white,
falling from heaviest heaven.
Chaotic crystals of luminous light.
The day holds its breath,
lifts its head.
Frozen but fragile,
so softly they bite,
as Jericho’s snowflake man
rescues his jewels.
He hurries through flurries,
to capture, to save,
then watches each masterpiece melt.
And deep in December,
he dies for his art,
braves one blizzard too far
with his battered log books.
What he saw in the snowflakes,
he showed to a world
who just had no patience to look.
We’ll drive down roads
with old stone walls.
We’ll close our eyes
You’ll show me how to skim a stone
and how to pick the perfect one.
I’ll catch the icy river ripples,
frozen like February in my phone.
We’ll walk through woods
with secret seats,
that whisper words
And then we’ll climb through crumbling castles,
on stairs that wind through distant times,
to watch the world from a stony view,
to see anew with ancient eyes.
And at the end of our adventure,
when reality returns in shivery slivers,
we’ll hide in the shadow of the unicorn without a horn
and rest our winter-sun scorched eyes.
And as his colour fades
so will the light from our secret day.
In darkness we’ll drive back
To cul-de-sacs and damp and debt,
We’ll crawl into our bed
And dream of freedom.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Friday, November 20, 2009
birds like kites,
soaring on the other side of
boring business, bland bureaucracy.
Crispy, crunchy, catapulted, caught
by wind that sings and sighs,
drawing dismal eyes to windows.
Moody autumn moments moving,
crashing, calling to the core.
Cursing walls that separate us.
sky to floor.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Saturday, October 03, 2009
She shakes with urgency.
Too many nights she's waited,
bated shallow breath in hopes of ecstasy.
She's played the part they gave her,
recited every line.
But every time, he missed his cue,
forgot the words.
He put the cage inside the bird.
With a thirst so sharp it hurts,
she leaves his stage,
she turns the page.
And the whiteness of that empty space.
The brightness of her changing place,
it dazzles her, it burns her eyes,
it turns her tears blood red.
And as the droplets run like rubies,
slipping down her haunted face,
she licks her lips, she sighs, she smiles.
She likes the way it tastes.
It was just one rose,
hand-picked for beauty,
one stolen rose, that woke the beast
and now the beast inside this beauty,
it bays, it begs, to be released.
So here, a suitor comes to call.
A single rose in an outstretched hand.
An offering she can’t resist.
A gentleman deserves a kiss.
And as she tastes his mouth, his neck,
his spicy, scented, supple skin,
she feels the twang of breaking bars,
she hears a roar from deep within.
And for a moment, silence finds her,
a cool blue eye inside the storm.
and all the pieces fit together,
and all the answers form.
She clings to her sweet sacrifice.
She sinks her teeth into his flesh.
She feels her lover’s arms go limp.
She drinks his life, she steals his breath.
Her first, a feast, she won’t forget.
She strokes his sleeping eyes wide shut.
She rests her head upon his shoulder.
She weeps, she sleeps,
And as she walks away
into the newest night, the darkest sky,
she feels a strange sensation,
where her heart should be.
Her hunger overcomes her.
She shakes with urgency.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
I stayed indoors with rain in my heart.
You showed me the light.
You led me into the woods to touch the trees.
You made my paper willow wish come true.
You made the forest real.
You drew a red leaf on my wrist.
Each crimson line is cut into my skin.
An indelible reminder of the veins beneath,
the branches of the tree inside,
that blooms bright red for you.
And when you smile at me,
your white light radiates.
Its healing heat eradicates each darkened space within.
And I forget,
that once upon a time
my heart was broken.
And I forget,
'cos all I see is you.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
His dog ate my sock.
It was purple with white spots,
the sock not the dog.
I remember I thought it was cute.
I kept the odd sock that was left,
washed, dried, and saved, in my drawer.
Hidden there amongst the pairs,
useless, but too nice to throw away.
How fast a year can pass.
Now I hang odd socks on the line, his and mine.
While the dog eats rocks.
I call him in, he runs away. I wish for goblins every day.
It’s not that I’m a devil. I don’t despise the dog.
He’s lovely, when he sleeps.
His whimpering dreams and running legs are sweet and
when he rests his wide black head against my foot,
I cannot help but like him, stroke him, rub his orange belly hair.
But when he wakes he steals each peaceful moment. He chews the atmosphere.
Affection is aggression. He’s a dominator, aggravator. I miss my cat.
I miss the easy bliss of open doors and cups on floors.
I wish for coffee tables, candles glowing in the dark, the absence of the bark,
A silent space, a place for whispers, not one word commands.
But Beauty lives here with the Beast and that I cannot leave.
So I hang odd socks on the line, his and mine.
While the dog eats rocks.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
My surfers’ paradise lost.
The reservoir of my soul dehydrated,
an arid landscape,
no place for man.
for a mirage.
Nothing in sight.
My cards on the table,
waiting to rise.
I bought you a gift.
Who knew you could buy
tears in a bottle for those who cannot cry?
Just drop a witch in water
and the tide will turn.
They must burn.
Those hi-def insensitive eyes.
Made uncomfortable from t.v. and lies.
So much Blu-ray, Ebay, DVD, Groundhog Day.
You can wash it all away.
Refresh, soothe, cleanse.
But make amends?
This is my parting gift.
Monday, June 29, 2009
The product of a paper tree?
Is this the kiss of fate, a date with destiny?
Is he my roses' rain, my poet's pain?
My happy ever after? This beautiful disaster?
Once the sky has broken,
it's hard to trust the sun.
Even the rain, it's not the same,
a different pane, perhaps?
My moonlight haunts me still,
but doesn't cross the sill in this new place.
As though it cannot reach me,
does not recognise my strange new face.
My tired eyes are wide,
but still I hide and seek.
I dare not speak.
My tongue may cut the clouds,
may burst my make-believe.
But this thing is real.
I feel it in the dark.
It pulls me near.
I hear it accidentally slip from lips
in drunken whispers,
only to retreat into the
silent spaces that we share.
but I know it's there.
Is this my wish?
Is this my folded, knotted, once upon a dream?
My familiar gleam?
I know it's true
that visions are seldom as they seem,
but I know it's true.
Friday, January 30, 2009
This sickly’s not so sweet.
It sticks, too thick inside my throat.
Perfection passes quickly, like the
sunsets that I photograph.
I wait in darkness,
hoping for a fiery sky.
For you I’ll try to forget forever.
For you I’ll stop before I’m full.
For you I’ll quench my thirst with raindrops.
For half is better than a hole.
I’ll swallow eight little letters a day.
They stick, too thick inside my throat.
But there they’ll stay.
Monday, January 19, 2009
she’s crashing on rocks.
His tide pulls her in,
sweeps her out.
drags her under.
She’s gasping for air,
he’s right there,
he’s so far,
just beyond frantic fingers,
too distant to grasp.
His eyes are an ocean.
She’s drowning in blue.
Each tear pours more
salt in her wounds.
She’s treading his depths,
always waiting for waves.
Her heart is an anchor,
But there is the sun again,
warming her skin.
The water has calmed,
it caresses, it carries her.
Away in the distance a vision of land,
and something is next to her,
touching her hand,
She clings to her buoy.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
from the cold up their sleeves.
Bundled in layers of comfort
that don’t quite protect.
The beast bounds ahead.
The two walk in silence, almost.
She breaks it with chatter, she beams.
She gazes at sky, gasps at streams.
The trees move the spaces inside her.
She stifles an utterance hiding in there.
Reaches her hands out instead.
Timid, she touches him,
kisses him, nudges him,
nestles and nuzzles,
as long as she dares.
Then falls back behind him,
or walks alongside him,
holding her heart in her throat.
The light fades above them.
The dark is a thief.
She pockets a pinecone.
She strokes every leaf.
Her camera can’t capture the feeling of forest,
the aura of air,
the vibrations beneath.
They drive back through postcards
and paintings in oil.
The sun sinks in pink,
turning every tree red.
Or at least in her head.
He turns up the music,
smiles, touches her leg.
The heater blows warmth in her face,
all around her. It rises inside her.
She stifles an utterance hiding in there.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
the August sky bled grey.
Thirteen moths escaped through skin.
Chaos called. We let him in.
I saw you cry.
The roses lost their heads. The one
you gave me faded on my ribs,
the ink still wet,
the flesh still red.
I said goodbye.
The bath ran cold. My eyes ran dry.
The hermit left the house.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
left me in limbo,
with a pencil
and pain with no name.
My words have escaped me.
They flow from friends’ fingers,
down cheeks ,
plop on paper,
in poem shaped stains.
I watch them in wonderment,
wishing they’d come to me.
Craving the comfort
of newly formed things.
But my muse has forgotten me.
Silent, she flies from me.
I watch from beneath her,
and envy her wings.
over wistful water.
like a willow.
Trailing her tangled tendrils,
Slippery, rippling the reflections,
A face she’d forgotten.
she once knew.
They leave her,
Dissolve in the depths,
are lost in the
She traces the water
with tentative fingers.
She’s searching for
a glimmer, a flicker.
She leans ever closer,
her face in the water,
Her heavy head
The sky above
The day takes
her sadness and
chokes on confusion.
Slipping so quickly now,
falling so far.
Her treasures are buried here,
A face she’d forgotten.
she once knew.
She lays with them,
gathers them to her.
Her weeping eyes
Reflected in blue.
Monday, October 06, 2008
my tender wings, so heavy.
I lift them slowly.
I raise them upwards,
to the sky,
and bow before the stars.
A casual moth flits past my eyes.
I cry as I watch its moonlit waving wings,
into the scattered darkness
Regular routines of romance,
my part only,
my role of rejection
And now I am alone,
I've been this way for years.
So many tears,
that ricocheted off deaf ears.
No more of not enough,
No more want, unwanted,
Invisible no more.
He's opened the cage door.
I'm out, I'm up,
in terrifying shades of blue.
He looks so small from here,
can hardly see him now.
My wings are stronger than I knew.
Gliding, climbing, falling, soaring,
I sing to the sky,
dance with the clouds.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
are drawn towards their trickling end.
Burning orange, amber, yellow.
in buoyant bowls.
Light through glass, it
circles slowly, ripples,
Moving always, nearer
to the edges,
to the final fall.
Huddled in amongst the rocks,
they wait, protected,
Until they are returned again,
to start their dance once more.
Their watery song will keep the rhythm,
guiding them, enticing them.
Their glowing, pulsing love parade,
a pilgrimage, as one,
Their light will always shimmer,
on the water, on the stones.
Their light will always dance with joy.
A journey to the known.
A glass tree hangs above me,
see-through, still and strong.
A hundred perfect, brittle branches,
long and lonely,
from the ground.
They waver slightly, caught
by currents. Cool air through a hula skirt.
Far too clear to ever handle.
Much too clean to touch the dirt.
Frozen, in its rigid beauty.
Wistful, willow, of
Formed in fire, now
a former light.
An echo, carried
through the years.
Paper Willow - Wishing Tree (Inspired by Memory of Place-art installation at St Mary’s by Keiko Mukaide)
If wishes were willows,
they’d line every street.
They’d rustle and crinkle
their white paper leaves.
They’d hang low and heavy
with the weight of our woes.
They’d lean and embrace us
in long silent rows.
They’d keep our small secrets,
in loosely tied bows.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Thursday, November 01, 2007
It is a long short story, with poetry weaved through.
It is a story about a girl who has lost her inspiration, and rediscovers it in an unusal way.
It is about awakening creativity, passion
and the inner self.
Below are the fairy tale themed poems from the text.
Slashing and shredding.
Such terrible teeth
To tear tender flesh.
You scrape at my bones,
So savage, you ravage me,
Rip me and ruin me,
Gobble me up.
You followed me here,
Through the woods,
Through the wilderness,
Preparing to pounce.
You waited, you watched,
With magnificent eyes,
Eyes like burnt amber,
Devoured the darkness,
They glowed, as you growled,
As I reached out my hand.
I teased you, I tempted you,
Begged you to bite me,
Invited you in,
To my little white home.
And now you consume me,
You swallow me down.
I hide in your belly
As heavy as rocks.
My blood flows with your blood,
My heart beats with your heart,
My feral soul haunts you,
We howl at the moon.
My cloak lies in tatters
Beneath your huge paws.
A wolf and a wildling,
We now hunt as one.
As red as blood,
As black as ebony,
My face betrays me.
I reach into my own reflection,
Though I cannot reach the one who watches.
I cannot touch the one who taunts me,
Tempts me, tricks me,
Hunts me, haunts me.
The mirror cracks
Into a thousand icy shards,
To stab me with.
My heart is knotted tight like branches,
In a twisted, tangled tree.
I wait in wintry woods so silent,
I wait for death to come for me.
It knocks on my door
In a long black shawl,
Face and voice disguised.
It wraps me up in coloured ribbons,
Combs my hair with poisoned teeth,
Lures me from my loneliness,
To murder me.
Yet still I breathe,
I cry, I scream.
I hide away, I sleep, I dream.
But fools soon forget to fear the dark,
Young girls desire dangerous things,
Forbidden fruit tastes so delicious,
And angels often lose their wings.
I surrender to my destiny,
With just one bite, I faint, I fall.
I slip into my sleeping death,
No longer fairest of them all.
Branches break the glass.
Their tendrils trail around my bed,
Where no one else may pass.
Leaves fall on my pillow,
To scent my golden hair.
It spills onto the floor
And there entwines
With roots and vines,
They twist around my leaden limbs
And climb with ivy
Up the walls.
My blanket’s weaved with blood red roses,
My fingers’ pricked with flax and thorns.
I rest in this,
My sleep-cursed crib,
I’m waiting to be born.
I tire of my slumber,
A hundred years of dreams.
I see such things behind these flickering lids,
Inside my silent world, I scream.
Tears leak out of eyes shut tight
And trickle down my cheeks,
Like sugar water.
My damson lips are ripe and full,
I murmur and they part.
They’re ready to be tasted,
By the one who’ll come,
To wake me,
To take me, to his heart.
I yearn to be awakened,
I’ve slept too long now, in the dark.
I clasp it in my hand.
Silver, smooth, hard and heavy,
It weighs me down.
I stole it from the monster,
But the monster first stole me.
He tricked me into wanting him,
He plucked me from monotony.
His hunger made me wonder,
What a feast my flesh may be.
But once he’d roused my appetite,
He laughed at my desire.
He teased me with the taste of love,
But hid his heart in darkened rooms,
His passion saved for bridal tombs.
For fatal fantasies.
He left me on our honeymoon,
He left me to explore.
He gave me every key, for every cupboard, every door.
He showed me the forbidden key,
He told me where to find the lock.
He dared me to deceive him, disobey,
His eyes, they begged me to betray.
And so, I turn the silver key,
Just as he wished I would.
But any hope of fantasy is drowned in blood.
I feel the vision stain my soul,
I glimpse my destiny.
But something stronger takes control,
I turn, I flee.
I leave the castle made of stone,
I run into the shaking trees.
I curse his name beneath the moon,
I vow to slay my monstrous groom.
I’ll stake his heart, cut off his head,
I’ll stain his blue beard red.