Posted on

saved 

Poetry will save us
as it has
and always does

It's poetry who catches us
falling in
and out
of love

A resting tent that nurtures us
while our souls replenish,
touching the universality of our own uniquely fragile stardust...

Stroking our foreheads,
breathing peace into our hearts,
illuminating the beauty in everything
and stitching it
into a cloak of light,
draped lovingly around our shaking shoulders;
whispering cogently to us of its impenetrability, 
of our own sovereign safety,
so that we may rise refueled
our furnace stoked
charged by the life force now burning
outrageously bright in us
to face the world and all its oddly timed surprises
with the optimistic courage of a rising sun

This day is mine!

Poetry has saved me.

Again.

Posted on

Rain 

How can the rain
be without 
symbolism?

How could it ever be
that it is 
simply raining?

How can I be calm 
when this water
is surrounding me
without relent?

My heart's lament.

I'm damp.

Damp in all my organs.


I want to whinge 
in protest 

I want to register
with some authority, officially,
my dissatisfaction
with the 
appearance of mold
on my timber chair

Actually?

Really?

Truly?

I'm to put up with 
this now
as well?

My heart is harbouring mildew.

Black soot haunts my kidneys.

My liver is beset by 
wet dust
of the kind that causes hives in some young children

Smoke it out, this ominous damp!

Cleanse me of this creeping moisture...

Smudge, 
Fire,
Hot coals...

I don't care.

Just let me be rid
of this soggy curse.

I would rather that 
the workings of my brain
crackle like dry forest twigs
or a lively fire

I would rather that 
the air in me
felt light and crisp as sunshine

I want to be crunchy

to feel like a spark in me could easily ignite

Yes!  I want to be flammable

or at least warm like a pocket potato

or a passionate embrace...

This damp suits me not.

Enough rain.

Enough.

(C) 2021