Poetry | Stories | Photography
A broken canvas
hurling gemstones
piercing the painting
Contemporary dancing
wildly moving inspiration
the wall and canvas collide
A dull one dimensional easel
the inspiration river flows outside
A broken canvas and broken gems
The artwork reveals itself.
Whoever stands there,
whatever they say,
they are moments in time.
Whoever stands up,
whatever they said,
we remember their words
Whoever has died,
whatever they do,
we feel their anguish
Whoever idly watches,
whenever atrocities occur,
we turn away from them
Ivory and Rose
a soft complexion
Bathed in sunlight
warm Ivory and Dusty Rose
Lovely almond eyes
hide unexplored longings
Love moves on the wind
flowers release the scent of summer
To be your only love
scented and waiting for you to arrive
A hesitation sees you turning away
courage to speak the words
You stop, freeze and turn around
a look is enough
for me to know
Your love for me is now enough
Shadows deepen
Sun flows through the windows
Unable to touch so much
Carpet burnt by the sun in places
If there are ghosts, they are laughing
they’ve seen so many hearts before
The folly of the footsteps lingers
We repeat the customs in different bodies
Death and life take on a cog-like view
Passed down from stone to stone
No women at the helm until now
Wasted spaces on ancient customs
Looks of wonder, some anger
The carpet remains for now
Tattered and dingy in the stuffy places
Cranky vacuums inflict various opinions
Sworn enemies in love for so long
Shadows deepen in the room
A tree from outside wants to sit for tea
Birds flee from the windows
The final curtain closes on another life
Dead flowers litter tables
We will keep them on the stem again
Dad would have been sad
Another set of footsteps lost
A black and white room
Classical glam with a twist
Envious longing
Colours of your ombre hair
Mix with your blood on the floor
Etched wooden chairs,
a French polished dining table,
ambient candle lights.
Beyond the dining room
your mind plays on your fears,
the shadows shift, move.
Petrified of the shadows,
a child too young to understand,
darkness frightened you.
Enlightened by knowledge,
you face the shadows fearlessly,
never taking a wrong step.
A touch along your neck,
terror has a name you remember,
you run out into the night.
A windless cold night,
movement within the front trees,
illogical ways of nature.
Those etched chairs,
your father died on one of those,
too long ago, father.
A whisper on the wind,
something I heard you say long ago,
“my darling daughter”.
Shunned for being different, blamed for the famine and the storms.
An ostentiferous girl with violet eyes and dark hair, a beauty not fit for this world, was sent to live in the forest.
Walking to forget, to find kindness and a warm home, she stumbled upon a beautiful tree with a wooden door.
Feeling as if nothing mattered, she opened the door, stepped inside, and left the cold lonely forest behind.
My ovaries laugh when he says kind things, yet they won’t get the chance to see you come into the world. You will be born of other parents, and I will remain barren and alone, or is it just the hormones telling me lies?
I have struggled with the choices I made for a few good reasons.
I struggle without my imaginary daughter; then I wonder if she came into the world, it would never be as I imagined.
There’s too much horror for broken people like me, so we:
mature later,
laugh hard, and
hurt more
for so many long-winded reasons.
I see the socially acceptable normal ones, the ones who have it all. I see them, and then I look deeper.
Cracks lay across the picture. Black ink seems to smear parts of the image. Underneath, there are pieces of them hurting, hating, hiding, hitting, kicking and screaming, dying, crying and lying.
I see no normal ones. Instead, I see many filters blocking out reality. I see myself in the mirror, and I know that life is about fate and destiny, yet life is also about strength and courage. Life is about love, but not this anger that’s consumed me for too long.
Sitting and feeling sadness boil into anger and resentment, I write it all out. Perhaps I will never have my daughter is a given now, yet perhaps so many others will not too.
The world isn’t meant for the weak, but am I that strong?
I see you in another land with a pink smile and shining eyes, yet is that you in there?
Sitting at home looking at the mould on the walls and feeling the cold chill that seeps through, I think of my place in society, my poverty.
Yet, when I look out the window, I see the Highlands calling. The streams and mountains call from somewhere ancient to tell me it will be alright.
As I look at the mirror black, I see a face I barely recognise staring back;
yet there’s familiarity in those eyes and those lips.
Undecided yet hopeful, I run outside and leg it towards the hills.
It’s not awful to run, but the sky is so beautiful and grey today.
I wonder when you’ll find me standing by a bin in some random street waiting to touch you again.
C & K 