consider the pencil
i hold in my hand
and the decades of growing
now torn from the land
like a babe ripped
from its mother’s breast
what life had to end
for this page that i hold
so that i might scribe poems
with words so bold
why do we behave
like we’ll be here
forever
always surrounded
by those we take for
granted
why do we wait and
regret
when it’s too late
for us to say
the things we could have said
yesterday
and can we make one anywhere?
and what about belonging,
do blades of grass belong?
taken for granted and stepped on,
and what about the daisies,
ripped up and made into chains?
does a tree ever dream
of forests far away?
is the hermit grab grateful
for no fixed address?
and is the swift yearning to land,
and crying for rest?
is the mountain growing to see
what lies beyond the seas?
and so, what does make a home,
and can we make one anywhere?
they left two large holes
deep and dark
like a well in the forest
and i started to drown
at first
and lost myself and
who i was
the parts of me that were them
until i saw the flowers
and filled the holes
with shells from the ocean
that sparkled
i am not an artist,
i am a conduit.
a demonic infestation,
is wanting
to be let inside.
it whispers to me,
softly, “let me in.”
banging.
banging.
banging.
oppression, followed
by the possession,
begging for an exorcism.
the most diabolical haunting,
the voices, they echo,
the walls, pounding –
willing me to listen.
the yellow wallpaper,
moving, telling stories.
and the illustrated man
sleeps.
dark corners, become alive.
everything looks so different
in the darkness.
pick up the instrument,
command it to move.
one stroke, and then
another.
is it fate,
or fluke?
magic
or genius?
i am being played with.
a voodoo doll,
violently shaken
like a rag.
the mortal pawn,
for the universe’s
divine hand.
i know we all
fall into it,
believing our things
will somehow change
how we feel about
ourselves.
that we’ll magically
be happier,
better put together,
complete.
but it’s never
the answer.
that vast expanse
inside,
that dark void
will linger.
the emptiness
shall never be filled.
not until you look
at it, i mean
really look at it.
stare into it.
face it like a foe
or a friend.
a demon that
can only be
vanquished
or conquered
by being fully
accepted and
acknowledged
and risen
above.
they told us to just
“go back”
like it was nothing
and everything was going
to be fine.
and it would all be
“normal.”
“let’s just get back,
y’know,
to the way things were.”
and what way is that,
exactly?
run into the ground.
weak.
exhausted.
completely burnt out.
although,
i did try
at first,
to simulate
a life vaguely resembling
the one I remembered.
gathering those
old threads
to weave
into something
new.
but the result was patchy
and threadbare.
what was once deemed
beautiful, now ugly.
something else was
mixed and woven
into my skin.
and the more i
resisted, the more it
pulled and tugged and
bled, as i refused to
accept the foreigner
that was squatting inside
me like a toad.
dark days realised.
but i needed
leverage to reach
the blue dome above.
and to land on jagged
rocks at the bottom is often
the only escape.
you can always look up
when you’re down
and witness the vast
expanse of
studded stars.
i walk towards broken palaces
like ivory towers
in the distance, castles covering the falling stars
that cascade onto crumbling sand dunes.
my heart it shatters like glass
but that doesn’t stop me from
running so fast towards you –
away from you
and into the dark forest where it is always
night but no moonlight
shines, only the illumination of
my soul that throws a glow
of enchanted curiosity.
what was it that led me here?
what was the spark that ignited
the fires? as the clouds gathered
overhead and turned silver
like swans.
what electricity travels through me
and who is even writing now?
if i stop the magic stops;
like water not flowing, rivers not running
and i know i’ll never stand still,
like a shark constantly swimming
to avoid dying,
and all the king’s horses,
and all the kings men,
could never put me back
together again.
and when it rains i cry
and it cries when i reign.
but i am no queen, like a pauper
i am
begging outside these stone walls that we built
pleading for your time
and your mercy.
what bird is this
that comes to me
so late at night
and speaks sweetly
bringing word
of places unknown
with tales of forests
overgrown
of running rivers
never dry
of star filled nights
that shine and thrive
it whispers to me
where i reside
a dank, dark well
amidst the tides
for i know no sunrise
or blue moon that shines
my world is darkness
and endless night
consider the letter “F”
consider the letter “F”
i have always perceived the letter “F”
to be the most comical letter in the alphabet.
i associate it with being
the beginning of some of the funnier words
from the english dictionary.
fart. farcical. funny. funk. fuck.
but then i remember some of those words
made to be written in lights.
fantastic. fabulous. fortunate. famous.
then there are less funny words
like fake and futile.
and the emotional words like
found. forgiven. forgotten.
but on the other hand
fork is a funny word.
but to fork something is quite a violent act.
perhaps i have been wrong for all these years
about the letter “F”.
it’s a dark horse.
a sad clown.
it presents itself one way
whilst hiding so much beneath the surface.
if the letter “F” were a vegetable
it would be an onion.
not because of the layers,
that would be a cliche.
i mean that i do not believe
an onion is really a vegetable,
it feels like so much more.
and so there it goes,
the level of thought provoking debate
prompted by the humble letter “F”.
the more that i think about it
the less that i find the letter funny.
suddenly, “F” appears pretty gangster;
so sharp and edgy,
a silent assassin.
an introvert.
it’s not showy and dramatic
like the letter “Z”
or vain like “V”
definitely not a narcissistic, psychotic, megalomaniac
like the letter “X”.
“F” is understated.
a charade
and master of disguise
with a sense of humour.
a fabulous, fantastically fake, fanatically flamboyant farce.
the humble “F”.
now F off.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 