Horns trump to herald darker days ahead,
crows calling from above shoulders slumped in shame,
anxious to bathe their wings in blood and pick clean foreign bones
until they shine white enough that the feaster may bask in his own reflection.
When all we knew of conflict
was pencil case frontiers
and glitter gel pen warfare,
the only walls between us
adorned with Hello Kitty smiles,
guns loaded with tepid water
fired at aliens from mars.
Just a quick update today for the sake of my own amusement. In spite of knowing that it was most likely in a fairly niche category, and that these lists are updated so often that it doesn’t necessarily mean much in terms of actual numbers, I had to chuckle at the fact I will forever be able to say I was technically next to Shakespeare and Poe in a poetry bestsellers list. I’ll take it.
Well this was a nice surprise…
You can still get a copy of Seeking Solace on Kindle for FREE in celebration of National Poetry Day. Click here to find it on Amazon UK, or click here to find it on Amazon US. Huge thanks to anyone who has already done so, as well as to anyone who does so now or in the future.
Happy reading, and happy National Poetry Day!
The light is starting to show through the cracks
on that frail, self-made effigy.
Stitched together with heartache and poetry
its days were surely numbered,
those wasted words spilling out like guts
you never knew existed before.
The clock tick-tocks and the puppet slips like sand
from my clumsy fingers
at a rate unmatched by any pen or voodoo.
It’s not the absence that hurts
but the grind of grit left in the pathways on my palms.
To place a kiss upon your lips
and watch it melt like snow
would be the sweetest gift of all.
Don’t think I wouldn’t bleach my bones
if fate handed me the bottle.
How am I supposed to tell you that
while you’re chasing dreams in Nashville
and he’s searching for happiness
at the bottom of the ocean,
I’ll be lying on the bathroom floor
counting one, two, three
and praying you don’t forget
how much you used to like my company?
Better to feel the bite of cold worrying my skin
than the panic that frays my edges
and tries to break me every single day.
I’ve had daydreams of the easy way out
and nightmares of eternity,
that’s why survival is a victory and
breathing is the only way to heal.
You ask me to describe the taste of the ocean,
I tell you it’s salt, sorrow and seduction.
You ask me to describe the smell of roses,
I tell you it’s sweaty palms and freshly pricked blood.
You ask me to describe the look of longing,
I tell you it’s wide-eyed and close to home.
You ask me to describe the sound of silence,
I tell you it’s the time between ‘I love you’ and ‘I love you too’.
You ask me to describe the feeling of numbness,
I tell you it’s when the courage never comes.
Where I come from the princess saved herself while the prince was on a gap year. She was slaying dragons as he sat on a rock somewhere, writing poems about the sun and dreaming of a quiet life. For the record, it wasn’t her step-mother that locked her away. They get on rather well, in fact.
Where I come from we dress our boys in yellow and our girls in green, just to keep their options open. We tell our sons who want to be our daughters that they have always been our daughters, really. We have a little cry together and look toward the future. We’ve got a lot to live for after all.
Where I come from we don’t have to teach our women to cover up their skin and stick close to their friends because we’ve already taught our men that no means no. We send them out to make their own clumsy way in the world without chips on their shoulders or glass ceilings above their heads, just thirsty hearts and open minds.
Where I come from, you’re all more than welcome. It really is a beautiful, beautiful place.
* Inspired by Nin Andrews’ collection, Why God is a Woman.*
And when all was said and done
not a single tear was shed,
she just fell before the moon
and begged it bleed some answers
into the inky sky,
the swirling sea that longed
to swallow up the stars
and hide her in its darkness.
But she rose from her bloody knees,
her body a battlefield,
and sought victory in the comfort
of a dingy waiting room,
for her bullet is the truth
and boy does it sting.
We’d hear the pleas for help
if it weren’t for all the bombs
but what use is logic
when it comes up against bullets?
Mes frères et mes sœurs,
not the first and not the last,
où est la chaleur humaine ?
We lost it in fire and brimstone,
in heartache and broken dreams.
We are human
yet least humane of all
this sorry world has known.