NowhereThey were everything, the stars –Nowhere9 years ago in In The End Poetry Comp More Like This
their hope we harbored in our pockets,
and it seeped under our fingernails in the winter cold
until we bled and breathed them, believed
their possibilities cupped like fireflies
in our hands – we went to sleep to them
and woke to their memory, dreamed
them in between – we ourselves
piloting the ships of tomorrow.
They called us, stringing their melodies
down to earth in half-remembered
filaments of color: we whispered our promises
up in return, the four of us,
our breaths frosting windows as we
stared up and pointed at the darkening sky.
Lodged in our eyes and minds, the stars,
and the only escape, that Christmas evening,
from the grey drone of the house – Mother's
wearied dusty voice speaking of
decline and demise, rising oil prices and
Old Mr. Hart down the road:
he had some kind of complex from the First World War,
that's why he did it – every Christmas, drowned the new kittens
of his cat, orange-striped and unnamed,
who roamed the streets with a fr
Meta Carpals and BreakfastMeta Carpals and Breakfast9 years ago in In The End Poetry Comp More Like This
Early sun deafens
as crusty eyelids flutter
to the smell of toasted bagels.
Cold tiles underfoot mingle with muffled birdsong
illuminating the noise.
I amble to the eternal hum of
the browning toaster
and the grandpa tone
of my fridge. Bone bowl and silver spoon
on the marble counter;
a snatch of tilted cereal box
spills oat grain across patterned stone,
mimicking my scattered senses.
My hand flails but flakes slip
between joints; failure drips,
double decker red,
from my tongue.
In these granite crevices lie
my waning fictions; crumbled
nutrition and fruitless future of
the one that crossed
my knuckles like a ring seeking
the perfect finger.
The MessengerThe sun, filtered to clotted cream yoghurt through early morning haze,The Messenger9 years ago in In The End Poetry Comp More Like This
hasnt yet dried the grey dew, which I flick with white boots leaving
a ski-trail from the patio to the files of bees, whose murmurs
jog me back to an infant school assembly before the hymn.
My bees, quite used to me, take two squeezes of smoke
in this wet chill to appease their erinaceous slumber,