Wild Opals

I saw you

Above the tiles that promised to keep out the rain

Your eyes were opal, that’s how I remembered them

And the sun was always setting but your hair was more golden than the light

I sat crossed legged

Like a child waiting to hear a fairytale

Your nails were short

But not bitten, you had been working on the land

And your fingers were stained by the soil

Or the cigarettes you used to smoke

You told me smoking was bad for your health

I assumed you stopped, you never told me you had

And we were there

Saying very little to each other but then we never did speak much

My joints loosened as you spoke and your rhythm pulsed within me

Your voice

Still, those whispers caught in the tide

Are your way

Go North you told me

Catch the red berries

Place them on the ground around your shivering body

Breathe into your cold palms

And let your warmth remind you

That you are enough

I called you a witch

Because I couldn’t pen you down

You were defiant against description

Beyond the madness of sanity

I was haunted by you

And as I prayed to understand you

Your craft I wished to home

I was gifted with an empty note

And a furious breeze

That beckoned towards the northern sea

Keep moving, I hear

Don’t stiffen with the wanting

As then you’d be like those

And I, I hear

Have become, already.

I


Where did I place I, 

       the capital, the stamp?

The stem that propped success 

Where did I get lost? 

       as not looking so straight as before

And falling into stand,

       but cannot find the footprints 

            where heels were dug so deep.

Searching back to written as proper

But now

         we melt 

              or so it feels

As we 

    becoming

Once I was drawn in water,

           a line dividing fishes 

               now tides remember  

So I ask where is I?

           knowing already,

               but pray to forget. 

Bury Me

Bury me where the brambles grow 

Sliced by unforgiving thorns

Let my tears crumble 

Like salt drops repelling the slugs

But let them come 

And leave silver trails across my breasts 

Whose majesty I’ve only imagined

Let me feel the break in my bones  

And scream as discs slip and roots wilt

So shallowly planted by frightened fingers 

I have known to ask of moulding discreetly, to feel common amongst the mass 

But my shedding mimics no other 

What comes up, too big to fit

And the dirt under my nails 

The dirt now choking my rusty cords

Feeds the hunger I feel, surpressing the swell

Full on words I’ve never spoken 

And they claw deeper into memories, ripened words sculpt outside of me 

Developed in your world  

But fallen in mine 

I am calling you, death of a stranger 

I’ve known what I’m allowed 

But forgot why I yearned for less 

For a naked me, stripped bare for saviours sake

I request that my core, sore and bruised, may rot

Welcomed back home

Please bury me where chunks can be bitten 

Where I can feel worthy enough to feed the worms 

And grow again, live again

Die, again 

Non-committed Writing


It’s been such a long time since I’ve sat down to commit to writing. Short, uncomplicated poems have been bursting from my hand like bubbles in pop but to actually commit to a thought that trails longer than a breath (which is how poetry feels to me, an exhalation, the next idea comes as quickly as the last) has felt weighty and awkwardly unnatural.

And I’ve been running with the unnatural by doing nothing. Not even trying to write beyond the poem. Not even brainstorming or journaling or thinking beyond the pauses, no longer stringing one idea to another to create a bulk of something that may or could or would mould into a story or reflection. And then I wonder if any of this even matters. Is this is worth even writing about, the not writing stuff. And is the not writing a symptom of a bigger disillusion? And what am I feeling disillusioned about… what has changed?

Everything has changed. Everything always does change, day by day. And these changes can build into a complete overhaul of how we perceive ourselves and the world. And that make me feel a little disillusioned at times as it only reminds me that all we label ourselves to be are only fleeting beliefs, constructed by everything we’ve absorbed till that point.

What a wild world we live in. It’s scary as hell and more beautiful than imagined galaxies, more surreal than dreams, more intense than heightened cravings. And to think about what I want want to write about overwhelms me as there are a million feelings worth exploring and endless sinarios that paint a complex tapestry of chapters. 

So poetry soothes this chaos, its eases the wordy pulse that quickens during 3am wake up calls. It makes sense to not try and make sense of anything, I wonder if we’re never supposed to understand. I’ve spent the past few years trying to find myself in a flow that suits. I still feel a little bloated and bulky during various moments of the day. That’s just me and I’m ok with that now.

Was I always trying to be an idea of myself, as I beat myself up for not writing the novel I once hoped I’d be able talk about to inquisitive strangers? Who knows, I certainly don’t. 

So I guess poetry is my commitment, steering frantic energies that would only bury themselves in my bones if I didn’t pick up the pen. It’s medicine to write what feels right. Fuck what I think I’m supposed to be doing. 

I’m supposed to be doing me, right now, being the only woman I know how to be. For now, anyway.

Bestest 

So said the dog ‘oh human, I’d really like to know, where exactly is the spot that biscuits like to grow?’
‘You know the ones you give me, to settle me at night, I’d like to find them for myself and take a crunchy bite’

The human laughed ‘oh dog, they do not grow on trees, they’re made by hands of human kind and travel overseas. See the biscuits that you eat, aren’t natural like the grass, they’re made of stuff I cannot spell and stamped to show they pass. Passed as what, I’m not too sure, but still you like to chew, they seem to keep you able, to do as dogs can do’

The dog was not too sure of this, as what should he then eat, if missiles were to hit the earth and kill off all the meat? ‘If that should happen’ the human said ‘you’d die as well, I’m sure.’ So said the dog, ‘how sad is that’ and cried into his paw.

The human and the dog, they hugged until it hurt, but then the human had a thought she couldn’t wait to blurt. ‘You see, we could get blown so high we find another planet, where I could be a butterfly and you could be a rabbit. And then we’d eat whatever’s there, be yellow, red or blue. We’d nibble on fresh pastures green or make a rainbow stew. Let’s hope that if this world should end our souls will stay together. To roam around this universe, best pals we’ll be forever’

Remember

When I lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling

and think of you

I remember those times you said we were through

or was that me?

memories blurred

yesterday was I fighting, my warrior stirred?

or was I laughing at jokes you told me

late at night when we should have been sleeping

but we weren’t

not knowing if the others eyes were open

never the words we yearned were spoken

remember the promise of road trips

and playing cards for cash?

when you said you’d teach me to swim

but alas

chlorine brings me out in a rash

“hey, who cares” you said

and we didn’t care, hot days brought naked bodies

fantasies soaring

sweat pouring

and leaky taps in the bathroom that annoyed the hell outta me

remember you saying “let it be”

let it be

I did

and we never managed to see it through

not doing those things we said we’d do

i’ll remember you the way I choose

not crying (like i did) “why the fuck did I lose!”

because really I lost nothing

i had so much to bring

and we showed up, the best we could

doing everything we believed we should

I remember the rainbow

I told you about it when you were there and I was here

when on the phone, remember I said “the rain on my face felt like the tear

I cried over you”

just the one

I lied

but the rainbow came and you hung up

a name in my inbox I decide to delete

I hope you remember me better

better than it felt we’d remember back then

even if you give me a two

I remember you now as a ten out of ten

 

 

Something, always

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All this noise

Distracting me from birdsong

Did I once sit still for longer than an hour without ‘doing’

Even meditating can be a task, something to do as I attempt to do nothing

But doing nothing, for the sake of doing nothing

When I’m not watching or listening

But I am, always

Thoughts are cropped, shortened, thickened

‘Thinking’ I say out loud

Something, always something

The clouds are moving

The bees are working

The cat is snoring as she does nothing, dreaming whilst curled at the end of my bed

As long as breath fills me

And my eyelids open

I’m being

So I interpret as I wish

Take full responsibility for the tide I choose to ride

I’m something, always