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I remember flyingI remember having wings as a child. I had wings so large and so strong that they could lift me off the ground. I remember using them to fly.
I flew wherever and whenever I wished. I flew to the Caribbean to fight a pirate with a blade, to the jungles of the amazon as an explorer's aide, to castles in europe to serve a king, to mountains, to the savanna, to the tropics, to the Sahara and to distant lands unexplainable and adventures unbelievable. Once I even went back in time and tamed a dinosaur immediately before I sailed with Christopher Columbus to America. Okay, okay -- I probably went back in time and tamed a dinosaur a bit more than just once but could you blame me?
I remember no boundaries, no limitations to where my wings could take me. My wings took me anywhere I wanted. I was free.
You're probably thinking I'm kidding or maybe you're probably thinking worse -- that I'm a liar? I mean, it's ridiculous isn't it? Listening to a story about childhood wings sounds absurd isn't it?
Hollow Memory of a Distant ShoreYou are like a long passed season.
As delicate as the footprints of sparrows in freshly fallen snow.
Intricate, yet so easily disturbed when care is not taken.
Somehow, you have managed to persist after all these years.
Residing in the same quiet place you carved into the woods so long ago..
Only a short ride from the sea.
When you cross my mind, you carry with you the scent of that shoreline.
Harsh and thick, yet somehow placating.
Though the weather was perpetually gray, misty, and cold.
Much like your heart had become..
Just before we painfully, and slowly, parted ways.
I recall with deep longing your fascination with foxes.
With the way they would trot up and down the beach in the early morning,
Their coats most often wet and muddy from crossing into the tide.
I could see the subtle enthrallment in your eyes as they dug for clams.
They would thrust their forepaws deep into the muck, throw it backward..
And at times, to my assuagement, you would smile.
Now, it feels more dist
Heading HomeBitter-boned, I break and crumble to dust
My pockets full of keys to places that no longer exist
An oystershell ashtray full of butts and ashes beside me
Testify to dreams of green hedges and white picket fences
A tapping on the door, a rapping on the wall
Ghosts always like this hour just before dawn
A bird screeches and I wake again to the stinging day
And shufflestep towards home from a thousand worlds away
Ocean EyesYour skin would be lace
Between my fingertips,
Tangling with streams
Of golden sunlight that
Button you up,
Leaving intricate patterns
That tell your secrets
With every thread.
You'd breathe like a mermaid,
The scent of the sea echoing
In our veins,
Like teenage hearts
Pumped full of lust.
Like heels on marble floors,
But you're so
You're blood in my lungs
And air in my heart,
But I live only
Off the raindrops
That fall from
Your soft, sea-stone eyes
When a smile curves your lips.
(I carve you in the sand,
But ocean tears
Wash you away.)
Evening Poems9 o'clock and
a nightingale song
from a starling winged night
in perfect mimickry.
The moon and her mandrake
baby screech whites,
peel trees to bone. Blacks
The stars meet
at hush- Deaf but eternal
jury. Atlas, stung by
each daughter: a pinhole
truth, still naively serene
after all they've seen: from dove breath
to flame. All
is a curse to the lampbearers.
The moon holds court.
Great judge, her metals bleed
into radiance, cleave twilight to hill.
She bobs socketless
through aether and flame, &
to her gleaming calm
all shadows die. No illusions survive
but reflection, who steeps wood in
moonwhites, petrifying old life into
holds voice at night's throat -
pulls light through sea's veins
and tightens light's rope,
weaving candle across
the skyline to bless
something older than memory,
more tender than breath.
a will o wisp promise
She sits all alone by the sea
before the empty stretch;
whispered winds wandering through,
without any hope
of a realisation.
The hush of skin on skin,
such submission in her posture
to shimmy past boulders and pebbles alike
into the vast emptiness --
what a wonderful death it is. To drown.
Wooden clunk of boats
rocking against the gentle, rippling tides;
brightly painted sides
and glowing edges
and well-ripened lichen and a lining of barnacles
which soothes the onrushing memories.
Gravel-like hiss of sand on the
sloping route up wooden stairs,
creaky, crumbling boathouse;
faded outlook under grey-blue clouds:
your ship doesn't pass by this place any more.
Maybe that's why these shoes hang,
odd pair as they are,
in these nooses
underneath the water
facing that clear, heavy sky
where we used to walk,
the sun and I.
fungibledecoding the coda
distracts from the glance
to chance a trance
code inked down her back
snowflakes from fingertips
rest, recoil and draw
the energy she's seen
in the space between
climbing only to fall
Stockholm SyndromeThis morning tastes dry and dusty and alive and
the Australian sun is already pouring
on to my back, a thousand lashes for your crimes
I run, and run, and run, and the hot sand
burns my soft bare feet, shaping calluses
on my Scottish soles. My knees have dirt on
them. Every rushing breath from my lungs
sings of love.
This is not my country, and it never will be, no
matter how many fistfuls of red sand I grab and sift
through my dirty-nailed fingers, no matter how many
thorny little plants I tear up and press to the winter-white
bone-ridged skin of my chest.
The sand will slip away, the thorns will rip wincing-red
holes in me and I'll love them still.
I am an invader, a daughter of criminals sent from a gentle
rain-damp country far away. This land has got its revenge,
this land has captured the witless intruder and holds her tight.
I crane my pale, freckled neck.
I kiss the eucalyptus branches that dig into the soft
rose-blush of my cheek.
I dig my toes into the dirt.
I let myself
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