come play with me

After the carousel closes
The paper cups strewn across the ground
swept and contained for disposal
Ask me if I felt free.
Atop the Ferris wheel
in the blue flannel sky
Amid the ravens and the red hawks
Where you saw me spread my arms
like wings
Where I set loose the quiet ruin
At ease, at last, with not knowing
with trust
with the ethereal certainty
of nothing

distant pola

In the space between evermore
and you, I
have everything
All light and symphony
The impossible,
unfathomable overwhelm
of being sated.
No terrible thing, to long
for a hand to hold
a warm body
to warm my body
on a frigid February morning
Yet, here
in mild, melty December
I stand silent with proof
of everything

light from above

When the light beckons
heed it
don’t squander about
checking the locks on the
doors and making sure
the kettle is unplugged

Meet your life.

Meet the death  of an old
you with daisies in your hair.
Only you can see
the shimmer of
starlight that wraps
around you like a wool
scarf in the winter of your
discontent.

Discontent.

Don’t waste it.
Step up to the alter,
make one vow —

From this day on you
will honour the craggiest, most unruly
corner of your soul
Humour it with broccoli for dinner and
human rights revolution for dessert.
Sit still and hear it
Do not for one more precious, timeless moment
forget
that you and you alone
are responsible for the light

alone

Is your mania a character?
Does it have something to say — to
need, am I reading it wrong?
What is the centre of the hurt
from which you sway to and fro
The tiny kernel of your largest,
deepest, most
unsatisfying darkened distress?
When you hear the howls, do your
ears perk up for opportunity
A friend, your kin, or the
invitation to your next meal.
Sit with the sensation that
consumes your nerves, your tendons,
the tendrils of innocence and longing.
Feel a rage you hold inside your
fine bone china heart. Know that
tomorrow, no matter what you believe
tonight, the wind will whisper to
the treetops — and they will
respond and wave hello.

Greenland is white

When I die, not if
— there is no if
When I die, I want
to go saying Thanks.
For the wilderness of my heart
from the depths of my everlasting soul.
Thank you for bare feet, soft beds,
fresh baked bread.
For the wave in my sister’s hair and the thrilling feel
of a pen looping across the paper.
Thank you for unfathomable vistas
atop mountains
and from aircraft circumnavigating
the earth.
For the blazing sunrise on the horizon.
For the soft embrace of my mother’s hand
when she feels her love for me.
For the tender way my dad taught me to be tough.
For cinnamon flavoured gum, the compassion
among strangers, and the relief
oh, the sweet relief, of taking my bra off at the end of the day.

the fairest of them all

The endless wonder…

After four long winters and four non-existent summers
Is it ok to say
That you’ve tried hard enough
That you’ve waited long enough
That you’ve been sufficiently,
abnormally,
persistently unhappy enough

To say goodbye.

walking

End the white wash
The worn out versions of us all
So bored of the ‘About’ page
the quirky tidbits
the silent snowflake rage of ever nascent obscurity

milquetoast
teetotaler
tallywhacker
prude

There was a time when we never led with the weirdest thing
When only those who’d earned it
Even saw your freak flag
Authenticity jangles around in my coin purse
doled out
to pay for services rendered

and anything real
anything that used to earn your spot in the tribe
looks like a status update

quiet corner

being right, I was
left with a blank page,
a tattered poem
I carried for four years in my wallet,
and myself

of all the pretty horses

it’s impossible to be inspired by beige
(or so I tell myself)
the words don’t flow
Wildness is the ally in poetry
the depths of something, touched
the animal inside is aroused
and scraping at the ground by instinct

it’s not a revolution that’s needed
rather, a truth
a pure element
the promise of being understood
it’s impossible to be inspired by beige
(or so I tell myself)
the words stuck like velcro to the page
don’t flow

the wild climb

the climb
is never straight, never planned,
never smooth enough to prevent a fall

and fall, you did
into the abyss of infatuation
tripping over your two left feet into a crevice of despair
and getting trapped, watching the seasons change above you
fourteen times

you reprimand yourself for ignoring that whisper in your right ear
on the first night you fell
“if you dare to climb
know the journey will not be taken without bruises,
my love,
nor broken limbs and vertigo”
but you thought you were too smart for this folly
you declared you were beyond the wisdom
to wonder if it’s all just a bit too crazy,
even for you and your wireframe heart

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