Spare me from the disappointment of pastel colours.
I’ve always hated them.
The lilac bridesmaid dress I wore (twice)
with its sisters, candy floss pink, powder blue, and diluted lemon.
What an insult to the fruit, bright and sharp.
I was always drawn to bolder shades.
Even now, I have a horror of nude lipsticks,
“tan”, tea coloured tights.
Give me the blood red, bright arterial spray,
or deep and pooling.
Depth. I am a deep diver.
Meet me at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.
Sure, I feel the weight,
the pressure of the fathoms above.
But I have always liked being crushed.
The cinch of the corset’s laces pull at my waist.
The tightening grip.
The blanket holding me down,
holding me in.
So I don’t dissipate – become so diffuse I drift apart
an emulsion of myself in air.
Give me strong flavours, the spicy and sweet.
By all means spread your butter thinly if you like,
a scraping that barely makes the dry crust edible.
But forgive me if I enjoy the cream, the melt.
The dull pleasantries of acquaintance
tickle me like whiskers on my sleeping face,
the electric hum on the edge of hearing
that enervates, infuriates.
Attention hopping, a million flowers
for the butterfly to alight on,
because it cannot get enough from only one.
Know me. Cut me open, it’s not that hard.
Dig into my guts and hold my beating heart.
Lift it to your mouth and take a bite.
Make it part of you.
A banquet for all who want to eat.
My face is red from the feast.
Seeking.
Finding.
Losing.
Seeking.
Finding.
Losing.
I’d rather long conversations that stretch into the night.
Passionate friendships that last lifetimes
of laughter and tears and trust and tenacity.
Rather be set alight by imperfect love
thank lose myself in seeking the grail.
You never know it when you see it.
My fire isn’t an inferno, you might think.
I cannot rage.
But wait.
The peat is smoldering, burning beneath.
It just needs the air to breathe
and it will destroy worlds.
Leave disaster in its wake
and my remains in the ashes –
Charred and black, cracked to show
the red meat within.
“Blue-bleak embers, ah my dear
fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.”
Ruin and Restoration
Tower moments
That punctuate life –
interrobangs !?
That alarm and question
Which way now?
Why did this happen?
How many lessons do I need to learn?
How many times around this cycle.
How many different faces.
Now is not then. The wheel has turned.
The cast has changed.
So many lies and liars
runners and chasing
hopes and heartbreak.
I am not chasing any more
Not running.
I am here.
What needs me will come to me.
What I need is already on its way.
Flayed
It is still a mask.
This porcelain skin
The scarlet lip
The face beneath the paint.
The last mask.
The one I will not lift.
Even for myself.
Because what lies beneath
is too raw.
Strip me of my defences.
Reveal the flesh, the sinew
the connective tissue
that holds me together.
Break down my walls
and make me honest.
Who am I?
Can you teach me?
Easier to wear the mask
than let myself feel
than open myself to betrayal,
abandonment, disappointment.
The greatest act of the
people pleaser-
not to please.
Not to ask.
Not to tell.
I will answer if asked.
I will need if needed. See if seen.
The thing about masks –
they never cover the eyes.
And even when blindfold,
I know what I feel in the dark.
Christmas
It is my job to lay the table.
To polish the silver.
The crystal.
To fold the napkins
into some beautiful shape.
I make the prawn cocktail too.
An easier job,
but one that I can never do
well enough to serve those I wanted to.
I should have preserved –
those early Christmases.
Just the three of us,
and flying visits
from surrogate siblings.
Houses of noise
where I would hide
under the table –
happy for, but protected from
the hubbub.
I thought it would always be that way.
Just that the scene would change.
My table
My hearth
My children
My overflowing heart.
But while time brought new faces,
new customs –
it stole away the old.
Turkey sandwiches curled and dry.
Soup gone cold.
One day I unscrewed the lid and found mould.
Not enough sugar.
We bottled it.
The wrong way.
Sourness seeped in.
And rust,
and decay
undid the seal
that kept the world at bay.
Locked out from this airlock of the year.
Too many memories,
too many ghosts.
Stealing the gifts I valued the most.
Quiet moments of solitude.
Long candlelit soul bearing.
Freedom to be.
Before anyone presumed to know
what to expect from me.
Before I learned the script
and said the lines.
Before too many winters
made me weep.
and I learnt that so little that we love
Is ours to keep.
I keep trying
to find the right design.
Fold. Unfold. Refold.
Somehow I cant make it right.
I give in and make do
with a half hearted fan.
Something in me still believes
In Santa Claus
and Angels.
The tooth fairy.
That things can change,
and bright stars lead to hope and resurrection.
But until it does, I pull on the face
from the jar by the door –
and resume the role I have so oft auditioned for.
Flush
How old is the Ace of Spades?
The single sword.
Can we cut through the overgrowth
to find some clarity?
Some silence.
Peace amid the noise.
You hear the quiet words
almost unspoken
that others miss.
You see the stillness
and the movement.
Life or death in a breath.
In a heartbeat
In the dilation of a pupil,
wetting of the lips.
Hot wax drips
and does not burn.
The purest flames are those which
breathe each other’s air.
You could consume me
But then I would be gone.
I am a mess of burns and brands
from others’ hands.
A mass of scar tissue,
an aftermath.
I destroyed the world in loving it.
How do we love while staying whole?
I have lost princes and pages
and Jesters and Jacks.
I have courted false Queens and
knelt before Kings.
The game is endless.
The to and fro-
this life or the last
– I turn around and there you are –
– how did I forget?
– how could I let you go?
There once were many courtiers.
I know them when I feel them.
But I have been alone too long.
Despite the crowd.
Appearances deceive.
Sometimes sanctuary is when you
offer what you need.
Suspension
The space between us
used to be paper thin.
Not even the light could get in.
I didn’t need to open my eyes
to know you were there.
Your warmth surrounded me
your scent in every breath.
Life makes us shift.
Tectonic drift.
You pushed up against me,
eager to reach new heights.
Making mountains.
But life is a rise and fall.
Like breathing,
and the cracks show.
They widen.
The ocean rushes in, and
pushes us apart.
Nothing to worry about.
We will build bridges.
Makeshift planks.
Wood and rope.
Stone steps for the horses,
who carry our burdens
between us.
Iron forged edifices
that leave ugly silhouettes
against the sky.
Block out the light.
These days, our separate
continents are connected
by an elaborate, steely
suspension bridge.
Great thick cables,
twists of wire.
Each thread essential.
Love, affection, attention, desire
interest, admiration, curiosity,
affinity. Time. Touch. Patience.
Forgiveness. Sadness. Sympathy.
Joy.
Twisted and stretched and
held taut.
High above the deck.
Keeping us out of the chaos
of the waves.
The waves that crash.
The lives that bump up against
and make us sway and buckle.
They don’t keep painting the Forth bridge
to keep it pretty.
These structures need protection.
They rust and rot and crumble
if neglected. Abandoned. Broken,
ruptured bridges litter the world.
Overgrown and forgotten about.
Our cables seem frayed.
Close to snapping.
You are pulling away.
Are you pulling away?
Am I?
Or is it just the ebb and flow?
The drift.
The foam.
A few lines (a day late)
I wait in line
for something to happen.
For some kind of change.
Hoping for a train
to take me on
or change lines, change direction
alter my tone, my inflection.
Hoping it’s not the terminus.
This train will terminate at…
melt into silver sinister gel and transform
some murderous butterfly.
I am in my cocoon. Liquid.
Soup. Human soup.
Endlessly versatile.
Becoming who I need to be.
Metamorphosis
Where do we draw the line?
And when do I cross it?
What colour is this line anyway?
Red for danger. Prohibition.
White will bring the thin and blue.
Red lines on my skin mean I have
gone too far.
One way, or another.
Silver stripes in my hair remind me
the line is short.
The queue.
The one waiting list we want to be long.
Conveyor belt, dropping us off the edge
into… infinity?
A mobius strip perhaps to take us
escalator-like, escher-like,
back to the beginning.
Endlessly looping.
Cutting in line.
Reading between.
I see too much.
People tell me
I look too closely.
Think too much.
But the sailboat is there.
I can’t help it if I see the
reflections,
dappled,
drifting with the current in the water.
I am flotsam, maybe jetsam
taken where it takes me
waiting, waiting.
An old lover sent me messages,
between the lines
on the back of poetry.
Secrets. Hidden in the mundane.
I wasn’t imagining it.
The fishing line was baited
and I was hooked.
I learnt my lines, my lesson well
but following it took me nowhere.
Somewhere,
it always becomes a tangle.
A knot.
The ball of wool you throw away,
not worth the effort to resolve,
untie. Never becoming anything.
I am fond of tracing lines.
The creases on your face,
from laughter or sorrow.
The pale blue of veins that
leap to be discovered under
porcelain.
Angles on angels throats
you could use to open bottles.
Some of you seem so sharp,
broken china, cut glass.
I envy your edges,
for mine are all blurred.
They want us to toe the line.
Be like them. Think in straight lines.
Why do they think they have it right?
Straight takes you nowhere new.
We follow the diversion
when we see the sign.
It comes when something isn’t working.
When new ideas are needed.
New lines are needed to replace
old code.
New routes around the blockage
in an old road.
We connect like trees under
the surface
We feel each other
energy pulsing between
the nodes.
Connection burns.
Neurons spark.
New pathways are formed
as old ones fade.
A future without future
A moment
An eternity
A world in a grain of sand.
Croak
She didn’t used to be so quiet.
Something stole her voice.
(Which is largely for our benefit anyway.)
She purrs. She squeaks.
An “eck” of acknowledgement
Or annoyance.
But no miaow.
Didn’t seem to bother her
until now.
Suddenly she needs
to get our attention.
Hey! You there!
You forgot something?
Where is he?
Why aren’t you looking?
So she croaks.
Like an old lady.
A lonely call
in an empty house.
All that remains
I love the bones of you.
The flesh, the fur, the teeth.
The blood, the breath
and all that lay beneath.
All that burnt away,
and all that remains
crumbled into dust.
Your body as my spirit.
I will keep you near me
until our ashes can mingle
like our love.
Red Warning
You know it is coming,
they say.
Like it makes a difference.
I can see the avalanche approach.
I can’t outrun it.
Make it melt
or freeze the frame
and stop the cauliflowering tumble
of destruction.
It will still catch me up
and boulder me over,
knocking me breathless –
suffocating grief
sucking all light and warmth out of my world.
I can see the headlight
of the oncoming train.
But I am still chained to the tracks;
put here by the dark stranger
who stole my heart.
About to be wrenched
into pieces
by the light at the end of the tunnel.
This train terminates at …
The next station stop is …
Wait for me at the turnstiles then.
We’ll be a little while.
But the service is regular,
and the tickets are free.
Maybe we are all there already.
Maybe we never really leave.
Twisted Willow 