Moth

Attic ulating, up the words I climb
in slippered undulating rhyme and
stop, unlock the heavy door, a key
to sticky notes before, and there
in chests the best are laid, the odd
and old and folded, saved, unsaid
they fester in the gloom, their spell
a chrysalis too soon. Ah what to take
and plunder? Through asundered parts
I blunder, scattering pasts in tissue
screams, all tip and topple, broken
dreams in dust and dappled light are
held again, and one, it might not
be a pretty thing, will be a moth
and from my midnight pen take wing.

Hand Recital

These two hands are both my boundaries and my open gate

raised up to signify life and catch my breath, and as I ponder

they take the pen to write, dipping sotto voce ink,

and hearing hidden passion with sentient finger tips.

.

How these two friends push and press and work together,

folding over dough in pas des deux parenthesis,

gathering to cup a warming brew or comb through hair,

iced blue in deep snow pockets, in summer – full red and ripe.

.

Comfortable in prayer, who would judge these anguished two

for uncommon deviation; a desperate grab in tightened times?

Ignited in knuckled protest, closing angry fists as if to fight?

Look down then to your left and to your right.

.

My industrious two return to sew and knit and thread

and wrap and cut and spread and meet and reassure

and weave between expression and caress.

And when you go they’ll wave and wipe, go mix a cake.

.

Each day they pick and pour and weigh, these two hands.

In doubt they shift and shy, but regrouping bear me up,

my loyal retainers, remaining after fair has faded,

brushing ebb and flow as time is plucked and dropped.

On Writing

Sweet words chew me

like tooth-clagging sticky toffee

in their luke warm ink shower.

Poetry addicts, they get in the flow,

spilling me out more tastily

than life intended. It is in their interest:

these gourmandising friends are wise advisers,

but their candy grabber misses often,

only occasionally dropping good.

Ready?

Time to fix, recycle, sort

make a splendid space for thought

.

Accoutrements will have to go

add-ons may disrupt the flow

.

Stuffed up anger all turfed out?

Bag it; bin the old self-doubt

.

Untangle guilty clasps and chains

dust yourself and breathe again.

Inspiration

I am with you now
fingers pushing against your bones
weaving and knotting vibrant fibres
through and over your cortex hills
sifting flowing
pressing your chin wrinkling your cheeks
cascading through valleys
of intense dreaming.

*

I do not see you.
As I surface, you shrink away,
diluted by functionality.
You are cayenne pepper, nettles:
witty, surprising.
Crawling, turning, I snatch at nought
and wait for darkness.