Arachne

A single thread,
as fine as spiders’ silk
- spinning outwards –
into an exquisite, intricate design.
The spider weaves her tapestry,
thread by thread,
laid carefully in place;
intentionally.
Slowly,
it forms, and I see
the completeness of the web,
laced with gold
and images of gods.
An ancient tale
of woe;
lies and deceit;
poverty, pain
and death:
of humanity.
Each individual strand of thought
is brought together,
in the dark and dusty corner
of my mind;
coalescing in beauty.

Tabula Rasa

Blank. As a fresh winter morning,
after snow has fallen,
covering the ground
in a crisp white sheet;
like paper

- this sheet of paper -

in front of me.
Slowly being marked;
inscribed with ink.
Words, phrases,
lines of a poem,
tracing down the page -
like a path of footprints
through the snow…

Voices ring
through this frozen landscape,
children’s laughter rises,
growing louder over time.
Hands and faces red
as a robin’s breast,
in the cold air.
They run and dance and fall
leaving memories in the snow.

Ekphrasis

This journey has not reached its end, 

Thoughts spread, like ink across the page, 

In this poem which I have penned. 

This story which another lent.

This tale is now ripened with age, 

This journey has not reached its end. 

On another’s words this does depend,

Ideas trapped, like birds in a cage,

In this poem which I have penned. 

Those words, across the page, they did send, 

This story has become my stage,

This journey has not reached its end. 

For my own use, those words I bend,

At last, set free, my mind does rage,

In this poem which I have penned. 

Broken words and phrases I did mend,

This pattern stamped upon the page, 

This journey has now reached its end, 

In this poem which I have penned.

my little crazies

I talk about 'my little crazies'
as if you're something separate,
not a part of me;
just something that I see
or hear - more accurately -
inside my head.

I try to explain it or talk to people,
but they never know what to say,
instead they all seem to turn away
- look the other way -
smile,and in that annoying, high-pitched tone,
simply say
'okay...'

No man's land

No place for a man
In this, the landscape of a woman's mind
She bares her heart and soul
to the corrupting hands of men
and prays that this time - unlike those other times -
he will be kind, his touch; gentle,
he will not tear this heart in two.

Forsaken, she wanders this barren land,
Alone
but haunted
by the ghosts of those past lovers who broke her heart,
the tattered pieces of her soul
wounded and mourning.

You cannot break something that is already broken
- this heart is not whole -
and my manic is dancing around the fires of my mind;
my brain is screaming inside my head
but thought has no reason in matters of the heart
and so I fall.

To a Beautiful Broken Boy

His head on her chest,
he sleeps through ‘til morning
but the nightmares still find him –
his mind is screaming –
and the raven that haunts him is calling his name.
The branches that tap at his window
remain forever bare,
leaves litter the ground beneath his foot,
soon to turn to dust
as the pages of books left high upon shelves –
or, set ablaze in a passionate rage.
And his heart beats a rhythm only he can hear,
a drum to which his own personal devil dances
around the fires of his thoughts.
His blood sings – a beautiful, melancholy song –
as it pours from the quill in his hand
on to the page before him
and mixes with his tears that fall from the sky
as rain.
He awakes – struggling for air –
clawing at the invisible hands that hold him down,
his breath comes hard and fast,
roaring in his lungs,
his brain clings to images of those terrible dreams
and – stumbling – he flees
from the arms that held him,
and in his darkest nights comforted him,
and in his haste he leaves behind him his shadow
to be locked away in a drawer.

An angel and a devil danced the tango

An angel met a devil
and they danced together, a secret tango,
and they fell into each other's arms
and down until, limbs entwined, they lay
upon the ground
in a naked embrace.

An angel met a devil
and they fell, deep, into a forbidden love
and their blood
and their bodies
sang for each other's touch,
their kiss.

An angel met a devil
and brought death upon their world
and pain
and loss
and hope stood no chance
in that war-torn place.

An angel met a devil
and they were led out to their deaths...

eye of the storm

Meandering - an aimless wander - tracing a line along the sea-front;

etching a path into the wet sand - foot prints - soon to be swept away by the rough tide.

Storm clouds swarm - swirling - above my head, reaching out across the water;

waves crashing through the grey horizon,

sea and sky moving together in a macabre kind of dance.

The charcoal lines of the old concert hall stand in stark contrast to the whirling patterns of the grey

back-drop,

framing the scene; capturing the motion of the clouds rolling behind it.

Water smashes into me, curling around my ankles, trying to drag me away

into the storm.

Pain, like a million shards of ice, clawing at me, trying desperately to hold on.

My feet push through the stabbing cold, carrying me over the stony shore, out of the grip of the waves.

Staring out - across - at the vast, grey expanse of sea and sky -

the storm playing out before my eyes, drowning the sound of the tempest raging inside my head,

the static - buzzing - in my ears;

energy - hot, almost palpable - cloistering, choking me.

Wind encircles me; enveloping me - whipping at my limbs and face - like an invisible cloak,

dark and cold.

I stumble back from the hypnotising display,

dragging my stiffened body toward solid ground, to cower with the rest of the world

- in doorways and under awnings -

waiting for the wind and the rain to move on; for peace to be restored.

pass me that top hat, i'm feeling a little crazy

Don’t know where I’m going

Don’t know even if I’m going

Motion slowed

- stopped completely

suspended in this nowhere place

- in nothing -

neither falling

nor flying so

I can neither stand on the bottom

nor swim up to the top.

The best way to travel is ALWAYS by candle, but

My feet have gone numb-

that’s if they are in fact my feet -

and not someone else’s

doing all the walking for me

- nor someone else’s mouth

doing all the talking for me.

There are things - in the darkness - floating around me

if that’s what I am - floating -

alongside

Broken teacups, nonsense teapots, scones with jam and butter

- with holes in it -

lampshades with no lamp to shade

mirrors with nothing to reflect

glowing blackness everywhere around me

like starlight without the stars

the moonlight in the night sky with no moon to shine

this place - that isn’t any place that exists

in real life -

but in a dream world; like I’m asleep

with my eyes wide open - at least I think they’re my eyes -

except I can’t see nothing; just everything.

Weird things

Made up things

That have become real - to my eyes - these eyes -

If all my dreams were to come true

I don’t think I’d like them anymore…

let me keep my delusions

- my head has stopped hurting and

the tumbling has become rather comforting and

I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t just my mind playing tricks on me

- or someone else’s -

their imagination suspended in mid-air

next to their favourite arm-chair,

or fire guard…

the facts are ambiguous and

sleep inevitable…

my first for my last love

Once upon a time, when you were mine and

I was yours. Once we talked, walked hand in hand,

our life a song played by love and drama.

I was Sita, and you were my Rama,

that myth like all myths, now ancient of days.

My life ended like in those tragic plays.

Dreaming in the darkness of my lonely

soul, mine a softer beat to you. Only

in the deepest mem’ry of my heart, and

within the shelter of my unclean hands,

you rest, and together we stay. But now

the truth is hidden non. When I ask how

you choose me go. Beyond these worldly bounds,

to seek treasures others have not yet found.

My voice an echo, with no reply, for

you left long ago, you flew my nest, your

own desire waiting for you to lie down,

put your head upon her hair. Kiss her crown.

Now for my time to fly away, to slip

from here into destinies hands. My lips

whisper my heart’s deathly wishes. Night brings

me what pain I long to leave behind. Sings

the bird, his morning song, so I despise

this world, my departure that it denies.

Sweet morn’ for some but for me it brings hate,

how long must I hold on ’til my poor fate,

does bring me the joy I have long desir’d?

My heart’s misfortune so long admir-ed,

that bitter wine that flows from others’ pain,

’til I myself may feel that warmth. It stains

the soft linen wrapped gently around my

limbs, the salt tears fall from my half-closed eyes.

How hard it is to say good-bye, to wave

a hand at this forsaken world, and save

my last breath for my last love. And blow thee

a kiss, do not deny that love for me,

that you once held in the chas-m of your

heart. Tell me this, did you love me before?

centre stage: a collection

It’s all a lie,

And now I see.

The fault, as it

Were, is in me.

My face bears no

Truth, but a

False endurance.

Smile, Laugh,

Reassurance.

***

Dawn.

Slowly rising, crashing through the black horizon.

Light,

Pushing through darkness, flooding empty space.

Highlighting the black silhouette of a building.

She raises her head, staring out into the vast sea of people.

The urban skyline stretching for miles.

Lights, shining through freshly cleaned windows.

The head of each sky-scraper,

caught in a cloud of imagination and awe.

Applause, encore, a standing ovation.

Doors fling open, bringing forth life and movement.

Car exhausts, horns, begin the soundtrack to the day.

Ringtones on the underground, half over-heard conversations.

She greets the sound of praise, bows to her audience.

Business lunches, opened with a gesture.

Greetings over drinks, praise. A quiet ear; receiving party.

Old friends.

The sun dips away beyond the edge of the earth.

The fiery glow fades into darkness with the ever-falling sun,

Dragging all recognition into submission.

Curtain falls.

***

I am the oppressed.

Of late and recent

days my life a dull

ring; a story with no

plot. Follow me through

closed doors and dark

passages. This is my

journey…

***

The sharp metallic ring,

A corpse.

Dragging its limbs from the cover of sleep,

Reaching for the noise of day, the sound of civilisation.

The crow stands tall on his branch.

Stumbling under false awareness,

Breaking out into blinding light,

The sickly sweet smell of morning feast.

Plunging into harsh, pounding rain.

His beady eye follows her path.

Beasts gather; vultures to a carcass.

Swarming clouds, pressuring, confining.

She cowers from her repulsive reflection; a weed within a ring of roses.

His flock return. All set their glare upon her.

Communion.

Surrounded by her own-kind.

Helpless, ill-feeling;

Unwanted.

His cry ringing in her ears.

***

Am I to blame

for my own fate?

Should my blood

pay the price?

My hand brings my

pain, yet your words

fill me with hate.

My soul, cries for

the night.

***

Alone.

Covert affection guides her hand,

Cruel light reveals her shame,

And her unknown treasure responds to the beat of her heart.

Luminous night-watcher.

Swift.

A blade, slicing into soft fruit.

Mutilation of glowing flesh.

Wine flowing from the open wound.

It’s beam piercing through emptiness.

Black ink.

Staining.

Spreading across the page.

The memory engraved on her mind for eternity.

A crater on its surface; a hideous pore.

Furtively she looks around,

Her nocturnal friend in her grasp.

Her pulse; blood coursing through her pain.

Dark, deep … death.

Clouds conceal its light and night takes hold once more.

 

***

She was just a girl.

Young, impressionable,

misunderstood.

Treated with contempt.

Alone.

“We are all responsible

for each other…

Good night.”

a sonnet in spelling out the list

A study in spelling out the list

Old man listens with such pain and sorrow

To names of those who have died or are missed

In wars lost and won against mighty foe.

In glorious battle honour is won

By valiant men who lay down their lives;

To die with pride, when all is said and done,

Is a fate that seems to be so contrived.

That timeless and most fearsome enemy,

Conflict, ever fatal and unresolved.

Men fight for false notions of liberty;

Vain hopes that, of their sins, they’ll be absolved.

Death is never graceful or dignified,

But with grace we remember those who’ve died.