The rocks
My blood, red flow
Behind my veil ash
stars lie obscure
An eye
Rusted white
Swirling in it’s spite
It gave me life
Is it that which I abhor?
At my behest
In vacuo
Upon an inky sea
Put my burnt soul to rest

Wiggle out the worries
Until the sky is full of furies,
The what ifs and might be’s
Swirling on a tight breeze

Tease out all the tension
Into the third dimension
Gather all the strands
Braided into supple bands

Navigate the nerves
Know their subtle curves
Tie each to a tension line
Watch the cords intertwine

Into a net, thrown in the air
Capture all the worries there
Pull the strings, cinch the net
What a fine price you'll get

NCL July 2019

Tucked away from company,
the bag of shame,
where we dump the
ever-replenishing
bowl of misfit stuff
with its leaning tower of
letters and unsolicited magazines,
artwork, small treasures,
confiscated things, and
bits and pieces we might need -
amassed together awaiting
removal or repairs,
a new home of their own,
or to join the drawer of miscellany
and its collection of
eternally optimistic maybes,
better safe than sorries -
really, there’s no need for worries,
it can't hurt to keep it all

Tucked away from every day,
wrapped up in layers of redirection
- no need for locks, secret rooms -
hidden away in plain view
to be exhumed by scent or sight,
by feelings of fright or contentment,
memories of true and untrue
tangle together
really, it's better they do,
it can hurt to keep it all

NCL July 2019