Eyes Shut

In her dreams she walks in shadows.
Silent as November.
Daylight swallowed.
Midnight seeping from her skin.

She drinks the outline of mountains.
The jackdaw watches.
Shades of smoke shift upon the hillside.
The soft tones of Erebus.

She wakes in a strange room,
on the brink of coal.
No chink of moon.
Only the gloaming to guide her.

She inches the door to let in the pitch.
Outside puddles are filled with soot.

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Calligraphy

Ink pours onto the page.
Perfect letters curled
across a sea of white.
The paper is torn.
A house built on sand
is no house at all.

Maybe that’s the price of grief.
A wasps’ nest layering
of thought on thought.
Thin, and weightless.
Clinging as a spider’s web,
storm-tossed in winter gales.

With each blow, more rain.
Hammering into the wood of the past.
Laying down into earth
that which not even the wind will speak of.
Flowing from some deep unbidden source.
Not pooling, but leaving.

Words skim before sinking.
Hands somehow find purchase.
Pull upwards. Allow themselves
to float on the breeze.

The paper is torn.
The ink is free.

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It Is Only December

Warmth pulls;
beckons inwards
into fire and flame.

Instead we step into grey,
an industrial landscape.
Corners meet in a
bleached painting.

The bow is pulled,
but snow is
just that. Snow.
Flakes tinge.
A hint of hue
steps into frame.

We escape.
Wade through expectation.
Falling sky can’t
wet our cheeks.

Hand-in-hand
we trace patterns.
Breath pouring from us.
The cold calling us
to follow.

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When The Night Has Come, And The Land Is Dark

The narrator is a writer.
His teenage musings revealed
through nested stories
of hilarious revenge.
The sort that boys, in particular,
take pleasure in.

The narrator lacks love.
His parents, obsessed by his brothers death,
fail to see his pain.
Friends do their best.
Their own troubles laid bare
as a burnt off ear. As the tough,
rough kid always accused,
cries for his innocence.

Then there’s the body.
It’s presence central to the plot,
yet it’s ultimate part so small,
except to ask us to question, perhaps,
what living is for.

The narrator sees a deer,
does not mention it.
Except to the reader.
There are, it seems, some things
only the page should hear.

The story completes its circle,
from death, to life, to death.
The time in between, the important thing.
The leeches. The running from men
and trains. The dreams of fame.
The questions raised about what it means to have friends.

The narrator looks back.
Laments. Switches off the computer,
without pressing save.

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Filled With Colour

A million ifs fall,
like distant shooting stars, beyond my reach.

Each an overflowing world,
filled with the colour of ‘what-might-have-beens’.

An infinite number of shaken heads, of mumbles,
choices made. And not.

Each larger than a galaxy,
an ocean full of prophecy, just deep enough.

But northern lights are not made for crying under,
and milky-way dreams aren’t filled with regret.

The moon entices,
hides promises in its watery reflection.

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Impermanence (after Eaven Boland)

This is the air I love.
When the wind is the colour of slate,
and I run down to greet the sea
as it rises from its slumber.
Carrying all of yesterday’s worries,
leaving behind some of the stale breath of morning.

Brining thoughts of the day still to come. It is still early.
The gulls are already soaring, but save for them the beach is deserted.
The sand, always shifting,
as minute by minute the water creeps nearer.
My footprints fade into impermanence.
I see the hollows they once were, as my feet, even now, sink into wet sand.
My fingers ache as I remove them from my jacket, pull free the pen to write.

Here there is no space for loss.
Sorrow will not grow, nor doubt take hold.
Instead the stones lie like fallen moments at my feet.
The grey clouds pull my mind,
raising eyes to the music of the gulls,
to the oceans roar, as it thunders forwards.

The light finds a way through the platinum sky.
Falls straight, meets the uneven surface of the sea.
Crumpled like laundry tipped onto the bed.
The cold blows across the room.
I continue on, shivering.

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Infinity

I was given a quote to write about recently. It went like this…

There are an infinite number of ‘me’s writing this, and an infinite number of ‘you’s reading it.

The following poem was inspired by the quote.

The current standard model of relationship shows that the observable dating universe
containing trillions of men and billions of women, is just an infinite ocean of websites existing side by side, like fish in a pond. Because they are infinite, every possible relationship must be considered. Furthermore, we each have infinite doppelgängers. The estimated proximity of our nearest doppelgänger is: ten to the power of the number of people of the opposite sex who live in our town, and are single, to the power of twenty-eight metres. That number has ten billion, billion, billion zeros.

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