Sticky Beak

Sticky

little, baby beak

wee, yellow, peeky beak

 .

.

Orange curiosity,

.

hot blade

ferocity.

.

.

Little beak

tried to speak,

only firey plumes.

 .

Billow forth a punch of smoke

grey, thick

nearly choke

.

.

dirty, sooty, ashy toes

charred, tired, naughty nose.

.

.

Stickybeak

took a peek

something sleeping

dark

d

o

w

n

deep

Pinocchio Flirts

Awkwardly

pining,

little toes

cramping

belly forward

against the air

click

clack

duck on a string

dancing.

The powerful ‘real’

driving

Aching

Wishing

Knee’s up!

Full thrust

Forward

First

word

interest

in sert (i)t

To be found

In the carpenter

‘s’  (e  c r  e t)

tool

b o x

Across the room

GO

the missing

peace

within

My Yearning Throat

Some things burn like acid,

searing the mind on both sides,

etching the air that fills my body.

Stark, intense, marks,

Molten fingertips,

a tiger’s scratch that draws the breath and drags me back again.

These things are born of

storms electricity,

thorough strokes

that cut and slice

right into

my yearning throat.

The Shame Game

 

A game of shame

a shame game.

Solitaire.

I’m game if you’re game

are you (game)

little rabbit?

Can two play?

Dirty names

Sick, lame, filthy, fat,

 shame

I’ll show you yours, if you show me mine,

SHAME

that is.

My secret

consciousness

MINE

alone

Small and smelly

down

beneath

From mother to daughter

I do bequeath:

the shame of before

under the floor

close to shore

go to war.

I am

shame,

always the same.

I’ll show you the rules of this tight little game

COME ON

play with me!

It’s not so fun without the pain,

always the same

all ways the same.

~

~

 shame finger pointed

 a smoke screen activated

two can

not play

shame,

a

 personal

denial.

only one may decide

only one

can play.

Shame

a

personal

hand

held to chest

a flush

of love

of self

What AM I

?

My Heart Pocket

I must say thank you  to the wonderful Jennifer Bullis for her inspiring tribute, created in response to a series of art work I did in which I posed the question ‘What Would Fall Out If The Heart Were A Pocket and We Were Each Turned Upside Down?’

Please pop over at her blog Poetry at the Intersection of Mythology and Hiking to read her work and see her poem, a poem that installed a sweet ache in my own heart……… What Would fall Out, If The Heart Were A Pocket, and We Were Each Turned Upside Down’

Dare I pose the question, dear readers; what are you keeping in your pockets?

 

My Heart Pocket

 

Little things,

that fit

in the deepest spots

the sweetest spots.

Big things that shouldn’t and can’t but do,

things bigger than even I.

And now with the rushing and flooding

of life gathering under the crown,

of gems past, present and

tomorrow’s sun,

alongside the shoving and pooling

of desperate rust and magenta survival,

there is a tinkling and a thudding,

a shining and a burrowing.

A pyramid of sugar

of slowly melting crystal

beneath

my upturned gaze.

 

How Can I Be A Balloon?

How can I be a balloon and not notice?

How is it possible to absorb another’s breath

so

thoroughly.

And why, when the leaking starts,

does it scratch

and weep?

There is a monster in my thoracic cage.

I slide through the window

To play his baby

Grand.

Yes, I’ve had lessons, practise daily.

The melody is sweet

with the undercurrent of

lost

It’s nice to play hopscotch in the rain

But

the impermanence is exacting

Sadly I inevitably deflate,

giving release, spilling out, falling away.

The monster escapes

stealing the bones from my fingers and feet.

So how am I to know where I end and another begins?

Do I really want the things I want

or am I grasping at straw

trying to plug my ever-leak?

That’s it, I’m off!

I have made a balloon out of my hot air,

and beyond

the clouds,

you may catch a glimpse

Magician’s Friend

Sometimes you disappear

did you know?

like a dove

my magician’s friend.

I wonder then,

my heart shapeshifts,

a sniffer dog it searches

sniffing

for you.

I know nothing

But what I see here,

 in my kennel of supposition and assumption.

Where are you pretty friend?

Where is my heart’s compliment?

Could you be,

drinking teas from China?

Eating chocolate pieces?

Underneath the tree with

God

tasting

paradise?

Will you re-appear

like a bunny,

and leave me a symbol

of life’s

miraculous?

YES

In your feathers

and mesmerising sequins

I feel you

deftly leaving

a brush-mark intangible.