Monthly Archives: July 2016

A day on my porch

Ivory latex skin cracked and faded,

revealing your grey withered form –

each stain perhaps a memory

a moment etched in time.

Sturdy and supportive yet – dissolved –

worn with use and abuse.

A clear purpose, neglected.

Indistinct and unnoticed, perhaps always.

Yet someone cared once, laboured once in creation.

Passed on, never revisited.

Left to your own fate, until disposed.


Silence breaks the cluttered air,

and penetrates the lies;

Which are whispered back and forth between

strangers with their eyes.

What look is that which begs me on?

To slip into a tale;

of valour and royal affection –

and salvation through the grail.

I wonder if you notice,

the anxiety I attempt to hide?

Or can you see right through it all,

and understand inside?

To turn away would be to run,

and I wish so much to stay.

But I am defenseless here with you;

your eyes which lure this way.

Vulnerable I sit and watch – for signs,

of the touch which is sure to come

unable to break the silence

unwilling still to run.

And as the expected soon occurs,

I melt beneath your skin.

The anticipation of your reach.

I believe this time you win.

Fight or Flight

Some days I think I might run away –

like a child on an adventure.

Without a care for bills or tasks at hand.

What a disappointment I should be –

to flee from life with such ease.

But my breath sits trapped within my chest,

and I wager on loneliness.

What an empty world so full –

where my comfort lies within unfeeling,

calculated characters.

So much easier to digest the fiction

then to face the reality and have my eyes tear,

my heart ache, my breath cease.

And what echoing cries sit

caged behind flesh?

For no one could hear them anyway.

Who’s around to listen?

In an empty brown house on the corner.


In pristine grace

alone beneath a crown;

untouched, unmoved.

Married to a broken kingdom;

divided by faith and ambition.

Yet, in divinity placed;

to govern and wield

a majestic tradition.

Wealth and power in lonely betrayal.

Forced into porcelain roles.

Shattering all that was once and passionate.

The pencil placed aside for a cold sword.

A wildflower withering on a battlefield,

in death remembered in sainthood.


Lucky to be alive;

breathing cool air

gasping absent air.

An unfinished portrait.


Lucky to be young;

faced with uncertainty,

dared by uncertainty.

An unpaid expense.


Lucky to be sheltered;

living in moderation,

forced into moderation –

an unforeseen event.


Lucky to be welcome;

standing in a doorway,

crouching beneath the doorway –

not so welcome after all.


Young writer

Singular type-face.

Hidden within impassioned shelves.

Where is the fire, the vigor, the colour?

Where is the passion of the young mind?

Stuffed into ten lined print on a stark white page.

Sitting asleep with boredom.

It passes through us without impact.

Unable to breath & dance & feel –

Within a plain blue cover, the incarcerated images

lay locked behind yellowing pages

and me along with them.



Alice, where’s the rabbit hole?

The empty descention –

into nonsense.

What happened to tea?

It’s sweet hear opening –

into clarity.

Where is the Queen?

With her violent cries –

for my head.