When there was nothing left to inspire

Tags

poems, poetry, thoughts

she simply did. Licked pen ready for phase one.
Her task simply to empty the canvas art – eaten whole at the breakfast table.
Deploying the destruction of florenscent tubes of paint like toothpaste. While the children sat wide eyed, dotted.
By phase two, she was scooping out mouthfuls of empty words – white on white knocking teeth that grind and tapping like metal typewriter bars on the page.
And at Phase three all that was left was to remove the world.
Deprived of electronic components the hum finally, fell silent.
No feedback. Hatred suppressed in ‘return to sender’ envelopes.
And there it was. Back on the bird table,
pecked into seeds, phase four – the minutiae of hope, hovering between abandonment and consumption
and so she did….
out on the breakfast table, out in multicolour, out on every letter of the keyboard, a grain for tomorrow. When there was nothing to inspire it grew.

Encased

World-Moon

You swallowed the whole

world, the size of a plum, and
waited for it to grow, lodged

in your stomach.

Day by day, acid torn away at the edges

until the surface represented the moon.

Flying between them
you couldn’t remember

where you began,

but at least you could forget

it was you. Flying. High.

Moving nowhere

There are no names or days of the week, just rooms into which we breath and move.

Today I am four walls and no blind, three personas of which two are failing, and one name in stasis.

Days are a swirl without carnival music, and only the trees stand guard by the window, talking of grief while being life. We are on pause, no name, no substance just breath.

On the hill

You’ll find me on the bench

On the hill top, where the rough grass

Meets the air.

Warm breath evaporates on impact

As we run to meet our favourite

Spot.

Champions of the mound.

We’ve beaten

The dog walkers, the imaginary

Runners, won sports day

Medals against ourselves

(and on the day) and

Evaded the dark shadows.

This is our place.

A worn wooden bench

Over the field, it smells of

Wet dog, running noses, handkerchiefs,

And white chocolate.

And even now.

And even though

I’m yet to go back in person.

A bench over the field

Reminds me of you,

Every time.

Formations

As you sleep I track

The moon’s body. The way she drags

Her form, her knowledge across the sky, through constellation lines, and cloud formations.

She can not,

Sit still.

Predatory and protective, she detects

Our quivering, failed sleep, offers up an invitation of company, ready to form

Answers to questions

We’ve not yet dreamt of.

On hidden nights I miss you

There is a loneliness in sleep

That moves around our bodies

We lay in silence as you grow

And morph into your form.

Senses

​Hyper Contorted

In your blue jumper

Senses sing

Outside in the sleet

Too much information

Is dark blue and imprints

On your thumb

Twisted stories

Act out

Moving from chair to

Chair they drag across your

Lips stick.

Inside rather

Than upside it’s not a black

Dog on a t-shirt

The swirls on the window

Fade you twist

Depending on the

Feeling of the hour. 

Wakefulness

(From the forgotten drafts folder….)

Abnormal        wakefulness      white                forms               glide                 between

sleep                take                    one                  pill                   and                  crush

an                    opiate,                honey               diluted              takes               no

prisoners          lavender              drifts                you                  beyond             this

world                and                     the                   next.                A                     universe

sung                and                     died                 for.

Normal             sleep

dark                 shapelessness    solidified           in                     waking             hours,

refuse               the                     poison              caffeine            stimulants        that

flutter               eyelashes.          Free                 speech             who                  lives?

90                    to                       110                  REM                you                  sing

in                     tune                    out                   of                     pitch                voiceless

records             mouthless           do                    you                  believe              the

cycle                of                       a                      one                  !two                  !!three

!!!four                !!!!five                  (?)                    do                    you                  go

past                 go                      ,,,                    insomniac         poppy               red

Times change

This is the time for change
when the wind blows in from
the places you’ve dreamt of,
and even the trees
hold their breath
waiting for something to happen.

This is the time when the body stretches.
Air inhaled chills each branch
before being spat back out
in a cloud of hot dust.
A sigh is worth more comfort
than the white plumes promised.  

Leaves fill up the garden,
stopping water following,
and your mind wanders
to other times, when  
bitterness meant kicking up
the crimson and not the
long lost memories of
someone dear. When you
could trust the shift in
the clouds without a taste of
expectant anxiety.

This is the time, when
movement creeps in.
And as birds  we lye in wait for
spring’s frame to form,
foraging for hope
to chase away
the unease.

This is the time to be.

There’s a pier

Tags

nationalpoetryday

And you’re waiting on it
Or at least I hope you are. Fear. Because the waves have covered the boards where we last stood, leaving dripping tors – mounds of you shaped clothes, on the steel frames, they’re rusted, the colour of your hair and if I muster up enough courage I might even glimpse over the edge, but you never said goodbye, one more time before you left, your arms opened wide, and the tide, the tide. and I’ll bide my time in case you return, on the ebb of the sea, just incase you return for me and then we’ll drip dry clothes, and you’ll come back to life and we’ll live, won’t we.