Twisted Fibres

Twisted Fibres

I’ve lost count

of the amount of times it’s come to this,

where we call it quits, then ignore the signs

and try to make this fit by doing something different,

clinging on to this piece of slowly unraveling string

as you deal me another blow,

knowing that as soon as I release my grip

you’ll blame my fall on letting go.

Like a person shouldn’t give up

on being treated like shit,

like there couldn’t possibly be

better versions of love.

Pickle Jar Karma

Pickle Jar Karma

Today I’ll sit right in the middle of it,

in the thick, dense, lush bustle of love.

It does not do me any good

to exist on the periphery of this one.

Feel the pulse of my heart beat

as it runs through your finger tips

and turns your lips the richest mix

of red and pink. Forget all future things;

now is for sinking into our spirits,

the way yours sparkles through your eyes

and I’ve lost all doubt in universal signs,

spellbound in this spotlight for as long as it shines.

You’ve conjured up an aura that preoccupies my mind

with fascination for how the chapters in our stories

might use the time these bodies

find themselves writing the same lines

on the same side of the page.

Tadasana

Tadasana

Spread your fingers wide, arms raised

towards the sky, like the sun

is pulling you to new heights,

to open spaces now that your hands

are no longer wrapped tight around your body

with impossibilities repeating.

Meet your feelings as peace doves,

treat their wounds, gather up their spilled blood.

Let the daylight soak into the scars on your exposed skin,

breathe in to your love coming home.

Extinction with an Open Fist

Extinction with an Open Fist

A butterfly, landing on your upturned palm

seeks trust in the warmth of your skin

and a place to rest, to shelter

in the spring days that still bring winter chills.

For the minute she sits in your hand

could be years in her life span

and yet she chose you, saw something

in the blueness of your eyes

that she wanted to be closer to.

Maybe it reminded her of the sky,

where her blessed wings allow her

to spend her time;

except you’re jealous of her freedom,

her ability to fly

and whilst you didn’t stop her leaving,

instead you took the fingers from your other hand

and in childish fascination

slowly plucked her legs off one by one.

Humanity’s twisted appreciation

for the wild creatures, who give us love

that we just maim until they’re gone.

Puppet Show

Puppet Show

If there is no God, instead can I

grant myself the strength to do what is right,

help myself decide

which piece of my fragile heart

I should be guided by.

It doesn’t know whose side it’s on,

where to stand to be on mine.

So much does it love,

but so much it is lost at the same time.

Would it be letting go

of the most precious thing I’ll ever find

or is this a lesson

in treasuring moments while they last,

learning to leave what no longer serves

my best life.

Or is it you, walking away from me

because I don’t deserve this gift,

have I not cared enough and in the right way,

have I been too afraid to give it my all

or did I give all I could by two months in

and the rest is my passive acceptance

along a road I’m not meant to live,

waiting for the end

like I can’t start my own beginning,

like I can’t be my own higher power.

Marici

Marici

Once,

twice,

three times.

This canvas

delicately painted with waves of craving

that crash before we reach the shore,

with sand warm against my bare back,

Your face shielding my gaze from the glaring sun,

a showcase of your freckled skin,

traced with raised edges

where I dug my nails in.

Sunday’s sin can be forgiven

when it was neither seen nor heard

but spoken in tongues.

You want to know,

you want me to teach you

the ways of my God

like how this beach becomes one with the sea,

but my God doesn’t obey the prayers

formed between a man’s clasped hands,

first he must dare to get his feet wet.

You’ve Got Mail

You’ve Got Mail

Dawn; when the wild birds

serenade me into waking,

for even at 5am there are war wounds to nurse,

new peace treaties to sign.

The words I write are wet from last night’s rain,

folded into a paper aeroplane

and dried by the wind as it journeys to your door,

where you’ve sat up waiting for the news pages.

Today’s headline is ‘Growing Pains’;

the weariness when the hard work comes,

when our love hits the breaking wave

and we’re thrown in new directions.

We become the weekly crossword puzzle,

finding the missing letters of how we fit together,

the clues by which we are defined.

Turn to the classifieds, all that’s seeking and selling,

the ones you’ll read over morning coffee

with tired eyes from yesterday’s late to bed.

There’s my scribbled message in the margin,

my simple advert for a better life –

‘If I can keep you, I’ve already found mine.’