Growth

Growth

I’m made up of moments

scribbled in the margins

of a worn out notebook.

These are the seeds sprinkled on recycled trees,

watered by tea-stained cups,

collections of my teardrops.

This is the hope drunk,

burning my throat

as silence drowns from the inside out,

the pen eating each forgotten line

with the fragility of shaking hands,

they hold these feelings as a gentle kiss

between fingers,

held still for a breath

to let the birds bless

this communion of sacred togetherness.

My spirit alive in the ink that spills,

once stalled, for now pours,

as I discover

there is no touch more intimate.

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.

Walking The Streets Of A Guided Tour

Walking The Streets Of A Guided Tour

The human heart

in search of a hand

that will hold it when the ache starts,

sharp bursts that break apart

our cold exteriors, tearing a hole

through calm atmospheres.

Craving someone else just to be here

to hear us shatter

and understand our cracks in the pavement,

how we fall through the gaps out of fear

of losing something worth saving for later.

Clinging onto the bruises that might matter

as if they are clues mapped out on skin.

Wearing ourselves thin,

instinct starving by the second,

till we can’t tell where the road ends

and the souls of our feet begin.

To The Pilot Who Didn’t Follow The Flight Plan

To The Pilot Who Didn’t Follow The Flight Plan

Too many of us grow up and forget how to play,

become lazy in settling for the mundane

Monday to Friday. We convince ourselves

to stay in the steady job, the still mildly satisfying

but faded relationship, semi-detached house, because we signed a contract,

we made a commitment, we think of the money

and material we’d lose or gain and weigh our options accordingly,

decide what’s less risky at the risk of wasting our life. Dig our heels in

till we’re all stood just the same – at the alter, in line at the lunch queue, school pick ups

in the playground, all ignoring the sound

that pounds at our guts. You’ve learned

to block it out, it’s started to learn to shut up.

I’m not saying we all need to be Peter Pan

but the boy had a point. To live true to ourselves

doesn’t mean we all remember how to fly; but I bet

you don’t even jump.

I bet you don’t even try.

“At Least We Tried”

“At Least We Tried”

At times I come across a soul

so quick to bring me down

I wonder what their story is

and what joy they have found

in superficial conflicts

or actions brought of anger,

how do they think

that will make the world a better

place, for us to live on together?

Hearts closed to the bigger picture

this is how they respond to the suffering

of others, by increasing the fracture

till we’re all just single broken bones

in a human body,

dysfunctional vessels

for a collective heart heavy.

Spreading the disease

of jumping to the worst assumptions

about another human heart

without knowing its best intentions.

But love is a doing word

so let’s all keep in mind

that in a world already tough enough

at least we tried being kind.