I can describe a rose in 12 petals,
A poem in a verse,
I can count the stars in the sky
As easily as change in my purse.
But you, my dear, allude me,
And I think the more I try just makes it worse;
I can never find the words to say
I cannot lift this curse.
I feel more at home among the trees,
As though my body yearns for grass against my skin
And leaves around my soul.
Like a weed pretending to be human-
Growing in the wrong place-
Prickly, green and funny shaped
And looking for something to uproot me.
So I’ll keep pressing flowers between these pages,
Hoping the outlines become veins that I can breathe through;
So petals fall around my feet like bombs,
To move the earth I didn’t want to be planted in.
I keep my muse in a bottle.
I shake it every once in a while-
Or tap it like a kid at a fish bowl-
It doesn’t move, stir or come back to life;
It just idly floats through its own filth.
I mutter as I flush in down the toilet
And put on my jacket to go buy another.
Wrapped up in bobble hats
And borrowed scarves,
With fluffy socks tucked inside boots,
and hands tucked inside jumper sleeves
where we wipe cold noses
being nipped by winter.
We pop inside for a coffee
and a catch-up;
The warmth from inside steamed up
The cold from outside frosting up
We can only see hazes of
coloured lights and street lights
and shapes of people passing by
with shopping bags and old friends.
Jingle bells play over the clinks
of teacups and plates
and cosy conversation.
It’s the most wonderful time
Of the year.
I am a woman
Made of wood;
Paint and carve,
And chip away.
Pretend you made me
But, I was always alive.
Make me a mouth
So I can give you back
Your little words,
Consumed by madness.
My god without eyes
Look and see:
It’s not too late
It’s never too late-
Never too late
But never easy
I’ll try to sleep,
Lost it again.
Lost in your lips;
Move if you must-
But never as angel do.
Leaves are plucked
And sown like dust, light and free,
The colour of cinnamon,
Hazel and cherry,
Sprinkled were the water laps,
Smooth and blue,
Against the setting sun.
A sky aflame, bloodshot,
Clouds blushing scarlet overhead,
Dyeing the island and its long, lost city,
The colour of wine.
His hair grows fierce like the sun;
Fallen leaves press upon his skin
Turning pale like the sand.