Halloween Haiku (better short than never)

Scoop out my sweet flesh
Carve my face to smile for you
I glow like Autumn

Hunger

Her hunger overcomes her.
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,
she leaves.

And as she walks away
into the newest night, the darkest sky,
she feels a strange sensation,
something beating
where her heart should be.
Her hunger overcomes her.
She shakes with urgency.

Red Tree

I used to hate the sun.
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.

Odd Socks (written for a writing challenge-not great but still a poem i guess)

I remember the first time I visited him here.
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.

H2NO (I am proud to provide a guest spot on my blog for the Lion, a new poet. Enjoy!)

The waves of my ocean crystallised.
My surfers’ paradise lost.
The reservoir of my soul dehydrated,
an arid landscape,
no place for man.
Looking,
searching,
for a mirage.
To rest.
Just emptiness.
Nothing in sight.
My cards on the table,
waiting to rise.
Dry eyes.

Optrex (the result of a writing challenge with a Redwood Thinker and a line from a lion)

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?
Be friends?
No.
This is my parting gift.

Bon Jovi wishes on a paper tree

Is this my wish?
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.
Scared,
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.

Hard to swallow

This heaven’s not so sumptuous.
This sickly’s not so sweet.
It sticks, too thick inside my throat.
It burns.

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.
They burn.
But there they’ll stay.

Buoy

His silence engulfs her,
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,
it sinks.

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.

Slug Sundays (collaboration with Mr Nash)

They stumble through sludge,
shivering still,
from the cold up their sleeves.
Bundled in layers of comfort
that don’t quite protect.
Restricting, restraining.

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.

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.