Most days there is mending to be done.
She holds the needle deftly
between delicate fingers;
years of practice with silver thread
stitching stuff together.
Pins present a problem;
she tries not to leave them lying around;
people could get hurt.
So she strives to hold them in her mouth –
some days her lips bleed.
Tiny woodlice like creatures lie beneath the skin;
barely visible but acutely felt as they wriggle
and squirm until they break through the dermis
falling hungrily upon the sliver of a tree;
scurrying to find a formation that fits.
Some days they find their positions effortlessly;
pausing just long enough for me to capture them.
On others they just lay dying where they fall
leaving a grotesque, wasted watermark
on an otherwise perfect pristine page.
If I slipped into your silk lined pockets
before you leave the bar
would you walk me home through the quiet streets;
past the lamplit parks with their borders neat.
Would you take me away from the drugs and the dregs;
from the cheap cigars and the beer kegs;
from the motley crews who spend their nights
drinking their way into countless fights;
from the guy in the corner who stinks of piss –
would you take me away from this?
If I curled up in the corner like a little ball of fluff
would it be enough
to be somewhere I felt soft and safe;
barefoot like a little waif
and when your manicured hand
reached for your keys
would you ever so gently brush my cheek.
Would I dare to speak your name at last
or would the moment pass and slip away
as night steals gently into day
and I find myself in the bar once more
polishing glasses and scrubbing floors
and hoping today will be the day
that I somehow manage to stow away.
There were no signs
that she had passed through;
no tell-tale shards of glass
scattered on the carpet.
Years, spent teetering on the parapet –
dare on one shoulder, dread on the other –
and there she was;
brazen invincible Alice
at broken invisible me.
scrape the sky
the white wave
while my ears
that will end it
but my fingers
find only –
and the noise –
I love the way your words dance in my mouth;
their tantalising tango on my tongue
leaves me undone.
You twist me twirl me
your linguistics whirl me
your perfect iambic rhythm
beats inside me
until my skin s t r e t c h e s
and echoes like a drum.
~ Posted for the wonderful One Shot Wednesday, part of One Stop Poetry
I would trace
of your face
with a finger
I would tip
into your lips
just to taste
I would melt
your lovely bones
I would hold
within my hands
If only you were here
Undressing you was never going to be easy;
removing the gaudy bling
that you wear from head to toe.
When the lights are off I lay you on the blanket,
pick you up and carry you to the bed;
to the freshly dug hole where I place you
gently, but firmly, all the time wondering…
…how the hell I managed to get pine needles in my knickers?
As a child
I would sometimes slide
from the top of the hill
to the bottom;
on dark days, when the winter sun was low
and the ground below was snowy cold.
Time passed it seemed
in just a flicker,
I have grown older, colder, heavier
the descent is quicker
and there is no-one left now upon the hill
to help me to my feet; to fend off the chill
Sometimes I sit a while and gaze
as minutes pass;
if I will ever find
to climb that hill again.
We used up
all that remained of the day;
the ragged moments
that should have slipped us into sleep;
to split possessions and hairs
into equal piles of sadness.
It never crossed our minds
to leave it until morning;
to see if the sun’s weak rays
would filter through the blinds –
we had already wasted
so much time.