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.