Friday, August 1, 2014

They say “I’d do anything for my love,
I’d give them the moon.”
I thought about it
but it didn’t feel right,
not for you.
Instead, I took a deep breath
and ignored the pain
as I gave you the sun.

The sun glares down in anger
but everything it touches is beautiful.
Sometimes it can be heard
asking for more anger
and I send it mine.
I am quietly watching
the greens getting greener,
the yellows growing golden
and I feel no more anger -
but something remains.
I wonder if the moon
might paint the night’s world
with my sadness?

Thursday, July 31, 2014

they kissed their first kiss
beneath the same mistletoe
Loki slew Baldur with,
and never found out
the reason they were always
so unlucky in love.

The seawater from your poem
spilled from my eyes,
but know this - I was not sad.
I felt every wave crash over me,
ocean spray upon my skin.
If I am a beach, it means I’m going nowhere
and in spite of my tumultuous changes in temperament
I wait as the still sea waits for the moon
and each grain of sand is perfectly peaceful.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

morning sex

I awoke to a warm body pressed against mine,
to hungry kisses and bites
and a mutual need for more…

How, then, do I go back
to the unfriendly tones of an alarm clock
to rouse me from my sleep?


it’s a pick’n’mix life, take what you want to be
(use a scoop. NEVER get your hands dirty)
choose only the most desirable
and never forget
it all comes down to WEIGHT.
(leave the fudge:
pick the soft, light marshmallow -
almost weightless
and you have a mixed bag of choices
that you think you chose yourself,
but you realise THEY chose your options,

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

among the ashes…

I found someone
who was, to me,
the very personification
of lust.
the thoughts of him
and the memories of tastes
may never vacate
my mind.
this fire might rage
out of all control.
any attempts to restrain
will only make it worse.
I’m burning for you


I’m not going to write of love I might
(or might not)
be feeling, or of the problems
that create a storm in my head
at night, or the
scars on my arm or
the food in my stomach
or even about those babies
that were born a while ago.
No - not today.
Today I’m writing about the light outside
my window - it was pink,
now it’s orange
and it’s lighting up the marionette show
of spiders on silky puppet-strings
(the big one is called Markus,
he’s my favourite)
Today I’ll write of the bold dark leaves
against the murky grey/blue
old paintwater sky
and the little buzzing lives
around that orange light,
dancing like leaves caught in the wind
and somehow never
getting too close to that bulb.

Monday, July 28, 2014

That little string of words
you parted with
damn near killed me,
in a good way.

(I’ll be honest
I didn’t think I could feel this way
anymore, I assumed
that part of me was broken.)

The way you make my demons
run and hide when you’re in sight
amazes me, how do you make me


wicks dipped in wax
these tiny fires keep me warm
like the body heat of many
crammed into a small room.
and, because we are conditioned to,
they make me feel romantic
as they dance and glow.

tealights still remind me
of what I was told were prayers
but to my childish mind
(and now to my cynical one)
they were wishes.