one small dot
wth the power
to stop
a thought
a scream
a shout
a dream

one piece
of punctuation
like a wall
to drive
head-on into
like a sidewalk
to dive
life-first onto

only
the bravest poets
end their pieces
in such a violent way

only those
who can tolerate an end
and do not weep for the loss
of a thing now done
once sentient and alive
in passionate, grasping love;
only those
with a new hope
waiting in the wings
for the murder of the old,
a thing declared dead
with a point pounded
through a once beating heart,
would finish a poem
with a period

this bright world
awash in colour
abundant in life
fell dark one day
and with it came fear
as things turned to grey
a palatte of ash and smoke
and so the blinds were pulled
the doors were locked fast
and beneath the sheets one hides
waiting for a new dawn

just leave a window open
but a sliver of a hope of a crack
that you might hear me singing
songs of comfort
songs of warmth
to keep you company
until dawn slips in again
to wash away despair

who is so lost in dreaming
imagining a perfect companion
that they would call down lightning
into a dead heart
into a cold heart
and watch it come alive?
who dares to reanimate a corpse?
only the desparate
only the disenchanted
willing to pay the price
of a new formed pitiless creature
yearning and wandering forever

I am a balloon

Tethered to this moment

Ever at risk

Of drifting into the future

Or sinking into the past

Let me remain present

Let me stay mindful

Of the good that flows

Before my open eyes.

The lake is placid with small ripples

An impressionist painting in blues and whites

Amplifying echoes of distant voices

Like a scent memory pulls in the past

And the sky is still above it all

As if even the wind holds its breath

To see what we might do;

But we remain immovable

For fear of disturbing this moment

Like a rock thrown to the glass waters

Smashing reality to pieces

And changing it forever.

She speaks gentle

With the small sad

In a way that softens

The ache they feel

She takes their grey

And warms it bright

Holding it close and tight

Within her furnace heart

As is her wondrous way

It’s an experienced embrace

Of one who knows such things

It’s a loving, caring instinct

That she so quietly brings

And I can see that she sings

Songs of comfort like lullabies

Sending grief away and to sleep

And dream new memories to keep.

There are voices in the grass

And music spinning out notes

Invisible into the air as glass

With only the ash grey oaks

And cotton white clouds

As witness to an ordinary day

A sun-soaked extraordinary day

Where upon the ground we lay

And listen to leaves singing

With the breath of the wind

I see emerald and I see azure

And I see us between the two

Living in a place of quiet balance

In the world for a time

And grateful for it

You are hazel and gold
Wrapped in summer’s sunset
As light through a vapor
A drifting ghost of fire

You are copper
Fresh from the forge
Soft blaze aglow
Tempered by your tears

You are eyes engraved
Beneath my skin
You are beautiful without
You are beautiful within
And each and every flaw
Is as streaks through marble
Adding to the whole

What fortune
To be haunted
By you.

we hollow bells
of men and women
who sound the depths
with our proud peals
like cries across the plains
we creatures forged
in iron, bronze and silver
sing forth our lasting love
our glorious happiness
our dark and heavy pains
we are a tight bound carillon
pressed into this great tower
and while we are indeed rung
but not upon the hour
only as each would have it done
when i act upon the world
when i act in any way
it does not happen in isolation
all of us in soliloquay
but in a chorus and cacaphony
each one of us upon the other
each one of us friend and lover
each one of us sister and brother

we hollow bells
we brilliant, firey, immortal shells
our notes, every one
collide with the rest
and forever change the tune
our acts are always felt
as when the hammer strikes
to wail out at noon

we hollow bells
we miraculous, hopeful
we self-loathing selves
are bound in harmonious disonance
together a community
treading through time
each note rising upon the swells
of a tide built by our lives
a series of hellos with no farewells

Lately I’ve been writing a lot. Perhaps “a lot” is an understatement. The volume of words pouring out of my head lately is like water rushing from a reservoir through  a burst dam.

I’m enjoying it. It’s not all great or even good, but it’s cathartic.

I’m trying to avoid finding reasons for it because that feels a little like when my anxiety spikes and I start looking for reasons… often, there are none, and anything I suspect can become the manufactured reason after the fact, sending me down unhealthy and obsessive paths.

To say I enjoy writing is like saying a bird enjoys flying or a fish enjoys swimming. I mean, maybe, sometimes… but that’s beside the point.

I feel fortunate to have stumbled across writing at a young age. I believe it has helped me cope with life. It’s a hobby and an addiction and a medication all rolled into one.

Sometimes, I wonder if there’s more to it, though. I mean, I could write in a paper journal or on a secret website… why share myself, and by association others, so intimately?

I think maybe part of it is an irrational fear of secrets. As a child, I was told things like “don’t tell anyone about this” or “make sure your mum doesn’t find out” etc. and these things became burdens over time. They were heavy. These secret parts of me.  They hurt.

When the occasion occurred that I could release a secret, the feeling of unchained lightness was so powerful as to be addictive.

I think I chase that feeling with some of my writing. To be known is to be unburdened of secrets… at least for me.

Of course, being a bit of an over-sharer by nature doesn’t help. There’s always fuel for the fire, so to speak. It makes people uncomfortable. The way a man crying in the middle of a supermarket might make people uncomfortable.

So I write. I let people read it, and in so doing, I feel known and a little less burdened by some secret me I have to hide from the world. Public me and private me overlap as much as they can.

I’m still trying to learn that privacy can be healthy… or perhaps the better way to say it is I’m still trying to heal a lot of damage inflicted on me a long time ago by people who should have known better. By people who did know better but didn’t care enough not to put their own needs ahead of mine.

And here I am writing about it. Surprised? Me neither.