Poetry of the damned

Dressed in gaudy garments
That cost the world
A dandelion squashed
By heels that could feed the thousand
I scream in silence
As my sisters bleed in pain
Betrayed by man made deals
Signed by small hands and greedy fingers

The merry go round spins faster evermore
Permanent growth will starve us
We signed the death warrant
And follow the piper out of town
In a private jet
Proudly throwing our water bottle into the recycling bin on the way out

Homesick on Holiday

Hiding unobserved within.
Snug, unknown, silent.
Only to pounce unexpected in a moment of quiet beauty.
How is homesickness even a thing?
But there it was.

After all this time of longing to be away, to go on adventure, to experience else but the homely walks through rolling fields. I think lock-down has a lot to answer for. Perception of space, movement, away-ness, thereness, here-ness, place and space have changed. Home (if you were lucky. There are other stories as well.) became saver evermore and the outside stranger, disorientating. Adventures too much movement.

and yet …

Wordless Poetry

There should be words
Rushing out
Carrying with them
The light, smells, sounds of a summer
By the sea
You should be able to hear the echoes

Of an eagle cry, a dolphin splash
You should be able to see a seal
Head popping up in curiosity next to my kayak
And smoke rising
Steaming sand at low tide
Through my words

Yet they are empty
I can’t reach
Metaphors swirl
Wordlessly
Pictureless
Soundlessly
In empty space

I should draw the colours of sunsets
Thousands of diamond sparkles on top of waves
Silky water taken with long exposure shots
Dramatic rocks mirroring in retreating tide
Is what my words should draw
Yet
The paint dried in

Faces

We all are liminal spaces
Drawn to one another
Repelled by one another

Each interaction
Manifests a layer
Which face will I wear today?

We all are fluid spaces
Endless opportunities
Of being

A bubble forms
It grows slowly
Like air trapped in magma

Surface tensions
Becomes too much
The bubble bursts

Another face emerges
I notice
It looks
Like all the others

The faces are masks
I tried to hide behind
Not realising
They are all in my image

Today’s poem was inspired by a young artists evocative work.

What’s in the Mirror?

See me
Hear me
You shout
On top of your lungs

Her
She can’t hear you
Caught in her own prison
Of wounds that won’t heal
It’s easier
That prison
Then healing
You suspect

Two people
Watch from afar
They see your pain
They see your struggles

Him and her
Tried sending smoke signals
Tried sending encrypted messages
You ignore
And scream
“Go away”
You shout your anger

At him
“Why did you not protect me?”
He couldn’t
His wounds were fresh
Trauma runs deep
He barely survived this one

At her
“You destroyed everything”
She didn’t
There was nothing left to destroy
When she arrived
She pulled at the bandaid though
Wounds need air and light
To heal

It’s scary
Being seen
Being heard
It’s scary
Not being able to hide
It’s painful
To look at the wounds

Being seen
Being heard
Comes with healing
You aren’t ready to heal
Quite yet

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