I stood and studied my ankles,
As they rudely interrupted
the passage of sea to shore.
Waves; they almost made it
to caress the sandy incline,
slowed to a final trickle,
as they reach their journeys end.
They grasp at grains of sand;
a desperate bid
to drag them home to sea.

Today is a day of peculiar bliss.
Of undue and novel joy.
A casual quiver of happiness
has unexpectedly been deployed.
Floating, fleeting and airy
A dandelion puff in a breeze
I smile as I relish the stillness
Of a once racing mind, now at ease.

A lethargic frustration
has taken up residence
somewhere between
logic and clarity.
She's a devil;
a tantalizing waif.
Powerless but relentless
in her horrid little mission.
Pulling and clawing
at all that is good;
drawing curtains to
inhibit the light.
**** her
and her intrusion.
She has dabbled in
the dark long enough.
Its time.
She was never welcome anyway!

Place your offerings
at the alter of my feet;
Bright, jagged colors
Propped up by solid green.
Words poured on paper;
dancing letters of love.
Spill it here, by naked toes
And I will give back
All that I have.

From where came you;
Sun drenched flower?
Why does yellow
not dissolve in you
like the others.
You beam back
at dazzled onlookers;
Bobbing your head
in agreement
with the beauty
you exude.

There are depths within you
To which I cannot reach.
Where water drips
and echos in an
obscure cavern.
Where each drop leaves behind
its narrative,
on the pore from which it fell.
A story untold.
The vast space makes echoes of heartbeats.
But deafening silence resonated,
the day your heart skipped but one.

Polished and serene;
your vocal tones,
they soothe my stereocilia.

The draping curtain draws back
revealing a dimly lit set.
The cast scuffle backstage
in their daily quarrel.
I wish their din would cease.
The lights awaken,
Silhouettes of exasperated
hands come into view.

"A Comedy, it must be".
"Satire, surely, is what she needs".
"No, no, another Tragedy".
"Lets sing and dance; fill her with glee".

"Can we not do this again",
comes the voice of Reason.

Meanwhile, the protagonist;
She waits 'till the eleventh hour
to know of the script.

*It's all an act, at the end of the day!

An empty box, I wish I had
A space I long to find
Into which my heart could sing
When 'er you cross my mind

I wish a place, discrete yet vast
In this world or beyond
A portal hidden in my palm
to which love could abscond.

There safely kept, for days of rain
Spoilt not by woe nor fear
I'd call upon this excess love
When you are far from near.

The sun projects a cross on the window blind.
A heavenly body skirting around the man-made.
The lines are perfection, though moving slowly.
Both silhouette and fire are facing each other;
Dancing clockwise,

Never to embrace.

I've never wanted,
To never want anyone else,
Until YOU.

"To write", she wrote.
She needed it more than ever;
The letters ordered on paper,
Falling neatly in a way that
Expelled and deciphered it all at once.
She longed for the **clarity;
For the void that would materialise
Once the mind was cleansed.
She struggled to grip
even a syllable of substance,
to fling down in a hail of ink.
There weren't words.
None.
No line of text alone could capture
this bombardment of her senses.
Only an act would suffice.
Yet, here and now,
She is without a stage.

I wonder how it felt before;
Before the perfect fit
of my hand and yours.

I have no medium to capture you, perfect scene.
No lens or film can render your essence.
There are no words to speak of your beauty.
There is no sense to taste your presence.

I face the mountain;
Sharp and defined.
A tiny, uneven facade
skirting a perpetually
changing sky.
I grow envious
of its consistent demeanor;
Its' immutable character
in rain, hail or shine.
Now, closer to the summit,
I stumble on rockfall
and scree slopes.
I face the mountain,
Resolute and bold
in a final struggle
to assume its
soothing temperment.

It is an irony
to finally find yourself
only to realise
you are utterly
lost
in normality.

The conditions are perfect;
unexplained heavy thundery feeling.
Biting nails, picking fingers.
Repetitive movements.
Tossing and turning.
All the ingredients for inner turmoil.
And yet...

**I cant write

A crack on the ceiling.
A line; far from deep.
Its cross-section layered,
Its existence discrete.
Unassuming and simple
in a room bright and plush.
Its existence is futile,
for its fate is the brush.
A restoration of beauty;
appeasing the strain.
Layering and patching
again and again.
As long as the eye
knows not that its weakened,
The flaw will endure,
now perpetual and deepened.
Its a crack on the surface
a line; far from deep.
Take heed of its presence;
but mend whats beneath.

They say she has a
heart of gold.
Perhaps that is why,
when'er she dare show it...
They steal it away.

Whether full or a half
or perhaps a mere crescent.
My eyes open widest
When her light is present.

We are the heartstrings;
we play songs in chorus,
to summon the hands
of the ones who adore us.
To call you to our land
to rule, as did Horus.
Yes! You built your guard:
tried hard to ignore us.
"Desist with that noise"
we hear you implore us.
But your wall is no match
for the lilt of the Taurus.
It's thick and secure
but deceptively porous.

I am without poetry;
Without verse or rhyme.
I am cleansed of all torture;
Have no concept of time.

No longer frantic,
nor riddled with woe.
I have fled from self-pity
to a land of unknowns.

A space so reckless,
it tickles the skin.
My demeanour is calm
but I'm woozy within.

Love rushes to greet him,
palms slippy and warm.
Relieved that my body
Still longs for those arms.

Heat flows round the shadows;
My soul's once more kissed.
But I've been without poetry;
She's the one that I've missed.

You've left a space.
A gap.
A knowledge of prior existence.
The way that bubbles
are there, then gone.
The way that breath
dissipates on a frosty night.
I held you close and
melted into you.
I felt you evaporate
like steam from my
heated body.
A dream-state later,
you had to leave.
The sleep sealed our fate
and reality took you back.

I'll see you soon.

I will not try to find
'the one'.
I will search for the
one thousand and one
things in you,
that lead me to
find myself.

I love the look of words
written down line by line;
their flirtatious teasing
along feint ruled ivory.
The gentle drop of letters
below unrestricting lines;
the emotion immortalised
in each cross and dot.
Most of all, I admire
the finality:
the beauteous dedication
and commitment
of that pen... to this paper.

Ever look to the night sky beyond tiring windscreen wipers?
They screech, exasperated by an army of droplets hurtling downwards.
Ever lean on the dashboard gazing upwards into the downpour?
Constant and linear; like how stars zoom past spaceships in old movies.
A whole universe of dazzling stars.
That's how she lived; her aura a universe peppered with light.
Light forever radiating towards captivated eyes.
Oh, she loved with a love unparalleled.

I'm forever fighting
the urge,
the want,
the neeeed,
to know the
source code of your
silence;
To see the matrix
of your thoughts.
To know how your feelings
color them.

What is a poem?
A lilting of words?
An image of voices
forever unheard?
What's this picture of symbols
all ordered in lines?
What's this rare combination?
Did it take her much time?
What makes the pattern
or rhyme start to flow?
What sets it apart
from the prose or the scroll?
Is it empathy recalling
some rose-tinted dream?
Maybe it's laced in darkness
the vile or obscene?
What is a poem?
Some words written with tone?
What are these lyrics
Sung straight from my bones?

The
distorted
feather of
cigarette
                 smoke
                                         trails
                              upwards.
             It dances
                                    on the
                                             first
                       wisp of wind;
escaping
                 the draw
                                 of cracked
                weasened
lips.
Lips
formed of
                                      withered apple skin
                                                         and stale coffee;
                                            of puckered
                         mouth
              and deep
inhales.
                             Hunched shivering
                                                       shoulders hoist a
                                                                                            shaky hand
                                                                                          toward the
                                                                                    face.
                                                A raspy exhale releases
                        another puff of smoky breath.
The icy air exaggerates
the capacity of old
and tiring lungs.

I foresee this rarely preempted fate.


I quit!

The warmth of bed, is draped on skin,
as I struggle to shake off the hazy hold of slumber.
My toes distort the rowed, uniform tufts of carpet.
They stand, stretched high to meet my weight.
To support my unsteady ascent.
I rise to feel last traces of dreams fall loosely
from my creaking shoulders, like a shroud of silky mist.
Voices and faces disappear, as rubbed eyes restore 'reality'.
Erasing the false memories etched on the minds canvas,
I make fiction of my nightly reverie once more.

My little helium filled heart
floats off into the clouds,
free from the weight of itself.
It makes miniatures of buildings
losing sight of material things.
From its' skewed perspective,
high in the stratosphere,
It has grown bigger than
the earth itself.

There is poetic sadness
in finally reaching happy;
a lust for inspiration
in the openness of the
universe it creates.

Down in the depths of a wilderness;
the derangement of **** and of wisp.
A creature is arched in a hunker
over bundled leaves; golden and crisp.

Its' blistered hands riddled with splinters
Its' tired face blackened by dirt.
Its' glowing and warm disposition,
Worn pale by commotion and hurt.

It is wary from cold and from torment;
the dark of the forests damp chill.
But it scuffs at the bones as with tinder
igniting the marrow with skill.

Wiping its' brow with its' forearm
the creature desists with a gasp
Smoke trails up through the forest.
A spark has alighted at last.

The flame inhales fallen pine cones;
blazing up through the bramble and briar.
Excitement and fear harmonizing,
'till their voices can't sing any higher;

'till the heart is consumed by her fire.

Soft-footed and delicate,
you tip toed your way into
my head last night.
Having scaled warm cheekbones
you pried apart my eyelashes;
teased apart my flickering eye lids.
Stepping under the soft pink canopy,
you found a nook.
Curling up, you pulled closed
wafer thin skin, to keep you safe;
to make sure that
even while dead to this world
you are all I see.

I've found a use for this writers' block.
It rushes to disperse grains of sand from
the tightly packed sea bed;
to greet it with a slow-motion,
dampened
thud.

A half hitch binds it to my fear...

I feel like a photograph.
One taken of myself
while I was moving too quickly.
The shutter didn't capture me
with defined crisp outline.
A blur of me chases my every move.
A clinging specter.
A lingering sensory experience.
A light trail, as I head towards the dark;
as I leave you behind.

I've often heard people speak
about the sting of tear-burnt cheeks.
The taste of their salty exit
on bitten, nervous lips.
Rarely, have I heard them admit
how hard it is to swallow
the same tears before they
even reach the surface.
I've consumed so much of my
own, I have become the
salty roaring tide.