A poem for a wedding

I try to find the words

but love's hard to describe.

It's stolen moments,

easy silence,

looks that could fill books.

It's cuddles in the kitchen.

It's driving in the dark.

It's turning up their favourite song.

Knowing they need the heater on.

Rushing to boil the kettle

when you hear their car.

It's the way you feel your heart swell

when they smile at you,

and the shiver

when their fingers touch your face.

It's minutes melting into hours.

It's laughing like a child.

It's snuggling on the sofa

when the weather's wild.

It's the news that isn't real

until you tell them.

It's the tissues that they bring you

when you cry.

It's talking when you know

they're really listening.

It's the understanding sigh.

It's the key that locks the door at night.

and the moment you turn off the light.

It's the arms that cling

and don't let go.

The nuzzled neck,

the shared pillow.

The touch that says much

more than any sentence.

I've tried to find the words,

I've tried.

But love's hard to describe.

Ribcage

My heart is a bird,

caged in my chest.

You make me remember my wings.

I used to feel safe

in the dark,

in the silence.

But you make me sing.

The world is still lovely,

viewed through my bars.

But the breeze strokes my feathers

when the door is ajar.

The sunlight is warm

and the clouds call my name.

The sky lifts me high.

Through my body

I rise.

My heart is a bird,

caged in my chest.

You make me fly.

You brought the words with you

Cross through
into another realm
of silence.
Speak,
not knowing they have
no words and
suddenly words exist there.
You have given them words.


(a fragment of a crazy dream)

The Day The Clocks Went Back (a writing date collaboration with Mr Nash)

The Day the clocks went back,
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.

Wing Envy

My muse has forgotten me,
left me in limbo,
alone
with a pencil
and pain with no name.

I’m impotent,
empty.
My words have escaped me.
They flow from friends’ fingers,
so fickle,
they trickle
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.

Submersed

She bows her head and
weeps
over wistful water.
Weeps
like a willow.
Trailing her tangled tendrils,
wet
with tears,
wet
with river.
Slippery, rippling the reflections,
of memories,
A face she’d forgotten.
A place
she once knew.

They leave her,
so sudden.
Dissolve in the depths,
are lost in the
darkness beneath.

She traces the water
with tentative fingers.
She’s searching for
something,
a glimmer, a flicker.
She leans ever closer,
her face in the water,
wet
with tears,
wet
with river.
Submersed.

Her heavy head
sinks.
She surrenders
to silence.
The sky above
darkens.
The day takes
a breath.

She swallows
her sadness and
chokes on confusion.
Slipping so quickly now,
falling so far.

Her treasures are buried here,
hidden, protected,
A face she’d forgotten.
A place
she once knew.
She lays with them,
cradles them,
gathers them to her.
Her weeping eyes
glimmer,
a flicker.
Reflected in blue.

Confession

Forgive me Father, it has been two months since my last poem. My words are far from good, they are not perfect, but I have tried to do the 'write' thing. My creations are flawed but they are sacred all the same. Please look at them, judge them but show mercy. (Hee Hee...you know how us Catholic girls can be....)

Little Raven or Thank you Mr Nash

Bruised but not broken,
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,
I leap,
into the scattered darkness
I fall,
I float,
I dive,
Alive.
I rise.

I fly.

Breakout

I just loved him out of habit.
Regular routines of romance,
my part only,
I played,
my role of rejection
to perfection.

And now I am alone,
I realise
I've been this way for years.
So many tears,
wasted words,
and love
that ricocheted off deaf ears.

No more of not enough,
No more want, unwanted,
Invisible no more.

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.

My broken heart still beats,
it pounds,
and sounds,
like destiny.

Memory of Place (Inspired by Memory of Place-art installation at St Mary’s by Keiko Mukaide)

Floating little, lazy lights 
are drawn towards their trickling end.
Burning orange, amber, yellow.
Safe, encased,
in buoyant bowls.

Light through glass, it
flickers, dances,
circles slowly, ripples,
rests.

Moving always, nearer
to the edges,
to the final fall.

Huddled in amongst the rocks,
they wait, protected,
precious things.
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,
alone.

Their light will always shimmer,
on the water, on the stones.
Their light will always dance with joy.
A journey to the known.

Glass Tree (Inspired by Memory of Place-art installation at St Mary’s by Keiko Mukaide)

A glass tree hangs above me,
see-through, still and strong.
A hundred perfect, brittle branches,
float,
suspended,
long and lonely,
only inches
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
crystal tears.
Formed in fire, now
long forgotten.
Left to
reflect
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.

Almost new...

The poem below (Fall Out Bird) is a bit of a cheat poem, because it isn't really new.  I just found it in an old notebook, where I'd obviously left it until I could come back and tweak it.  So I quickly tweaked it and stuck it on here in the guise of new work.  It could probably do with a bit more tweaking, but for now it's another step towards new stuff, so I'm o.k. with it.  Hope you like it (if anyone is actually reading this-hee).  Oh and it's inspired by the first line of a Fall Out Boy song, hence the title.

Fall Out Bird

You're a canary,

I'm a coalmine.

You rattle your cage,

but there's no escape.

My winding black tunnels

stretch longer,

plunge deeper,

and daylight is so far away.

You chirp on your perch and

you fluff yellow feathers,

but cold, heavy blackness is 

weighing you down.

You gasp and you sway

as your shrill song is

silenced.

This air is too toxic,

it poisons your lungs.

Time Flies

(Inspiration from York Art Gallery)

Dirty brown feathers,

on tired, old wings.

Resting now, dusty, detached.

The ticking has ceased, for

this time has run out.

No more beating heart,

beating sky, from beneath.

No more slippery air,

sliding through, falling down.

A home made of glass, 

lined with leather, and light.

Where words are your nest,

misty relics your eggs.

Muffled now, hushed voices

sing for you, slow.

Then flutter away, in

hard, wooden steps.

Storm

(Inspiration from Castle Museum)

Thunder rattles brittle windows,

blackened sky pours down.

Water splashes shiny cobbles,

Lightening cracks the ground.

My window seat is draughty,

the wind, it reaches in.

Water pools on tinted glass,

my warmth comes from within.

This trinket box, I'm cradling,

this pretty, silver, tomb,

it holds a secret, small and precious,

that makes my cool face burn.

My thoughts are embers,

sparking, dancing,

leaping through my rainy eyes.

They fly to you, through

storms and darkness.

They call to you,

from broken skies.

Ink

Ink
Sinks
Into skin.
Colours bleed
Into blood.
Steel stings,
Scrapes,
Sears,
Scorches,
Stains my flesh.