poetry

A spider lives on the moon

A spider lives on the moon.

She spins a web between the stars,

Weaving lines of silk against a dark, summer sky,

Like spirals of beautiful things cast around the world,

To catch the lost souls left wandering through the night.

A spider lives on the moon,

And I think she’s lonely;

Lonely up there between worlds,

Holding up the universe

In the absence of suns.

I wish I could be the moon,

Or even just a star,

To be encased in her soft touch,

And either of us would have to be alone.

poetry

The girl in the tower

Light filters in,

Like soft thorns on her skin.

She slips it through her fingers,

Imagining it a ribbon

Winding round her hand

So she can bring down the sky and it’s stars.

She listens to the wind

And imagines feathers on her back,

To fly up with the ravens

And greet the moon as one.

She recites all her spells,

And summons monsters she shouldn’t know-

Ones with red eyes-

From the dusk,

But the night was never hers.

poetry

Some Old Lover’s Ghost

Oh, I long to talk to some old lover’s ghost,

To learn a little bit of what it’s like to fly with angels,

So in love you think you see Heaven.

Oh, how I wish to see looks of love and malice-

So twisted and rotten that I can no longer tell the difference-

Hatred mistook for passion;

Guilt mistook for kindness.

Oh, how I ache steal another lover’s dreams,

And be visited by anything than our long-dead love,

But even with you buried, I find myself haunted.

And you know I cannot lie,

You were right,

I am nothing without you.



But I suppose I should find comfort in knowing you are now also nothing without me.

Perhaps that is why you visit me so-

To beg me to release you from this brick prison.

Oh, how you must know there is no place for you outside these walls.

And once I and this house are gone, there will be no one left for you to taunt.

poetry

The Mad Creator

The Mad Creator

Mixing poetry and madness

In petri dishes made of cardboard

Searching for the perfect drink:

Make him drunk,

But not so he cannot write;

Make him numb,

But not so he cannot remember his dealings.

Make him learn to fly,

So he can learn to live like angels

To play God on paper,

But from the comfort of a desk;

From the comfort of a window,

Looking out at test subjects

Known as people,

Who know his name but not his face.

Not today’s face anyway.

poetry

Four little teacups sit on the wall

Four little teacups sit on the wall,

And four friendly voices drift on the still, country air.

They sit down by the boats and talk about the good weather,

And family, and how Johnnie from across the way is doing much better.

They listen to the sounds of a dozen little birds,

To the gentle laps of blue water,

And wave hello to those who walk past.

They wait for the sun to disappear

Behind the pier;

To depart down the path,

To four little houses sitting in a row.