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.

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.

Golden Pneumas

Golden Pneumas

At first the wind carried me,

catching my weary legs once crippled with worries

and careless whispers, now cradled by the warm breeze

and wrapped in the sweetest words.

I cannot remember the last time I uncovered this skin,

exposed it to sunlight, to movement, feet aching

from the walk across hard pavements and hill climbs.

Your hand on my bare thigh

takes me a moment to recognise it’s mine;

I watch in awe of the goosebumps that grow,

how our miracle bodies react to the cold,

bruised and scratched but satisfied.

Let me rest on this birch tree, exchange a smile

with the panting dog – he knows I know

what freedom feels like amongst the pines.

As do the birds, they haven’t stopped singing

since I stepped outdoors and their gentle presence follows me

like little Cupids,

arrows flying towards the soft lips of my new lover,

alone, as she speaks to herself.

A Bigger Picture

A Bigger Picture

We measure space as the distance between two objects;

destinations, travel time, our indecisive minds.

In the middle exists inertia’s shelved life –

TV screens and celebrity magazines

injecting the senses with anti-ageing regimes

till every self-love drugs test comes back clean.

When did we turn numb to natural beauty,

who decided we are done with the inbetween?

This Earth is crying for our attention

neglected more as years pass by,

it broke the sky to give us thunder and lightening

but we all just stayed inside, texting loved ones

with apologies for the minutes we had been away

and blaming the storm for poor phone signal.

We think this planet owes us a cloudless day

like it hasn’t already sacrificed its riches;

how could the rain be so selfish?

Wreckage

Wreckage

The edge of a cliff is a beautiful place

but I misplace confidence in my footing,

forget the risk of mud slides,

the effect of tears on mossy rocks.

By now, the fall should not come as a shock

and the shore breaks waves

like I am sure to break bones.

Blown away are the foundations

of a love to come home to,

for who could ever soften the landing

of a heart demanding to spill its own blood.