Well-Spun and Falsehood

Well Spun

Lately you breathe words out in strings

and they crumple, and scatter on the floor.

Your face a picture of contrite earnestness,

but yours, seeing mine, knows that I perceive

you - not your well-spun promises.

You clamour and cling to my clothes -

enough to make me scratch at my skin.

How much more do I give to the void -

words are not enough to tide me over,

this garden will not keep me here - I can't

see anything growing, anyway.

(2014)

I have been writing a lot lately, and quite a bit remains in my notebooks, waiting for another day when I can recraft the poems into something a little more elegant, and more representative of what I'm trying to say. But this one sprung from the experience of someone I know, and it seems to work, even if it is in a raw state.




In other news, I've been painting lately too - I'd say I've been "almost manic" in my creativity, but that is a lie. I have definitely been manic. Borderline on needing to visit someone with experience in levelling out brain chemistry... but not quite.

I do feel proud that I am able to identify this in myself though. I am aware that this may not always be the case, but I'm also proud that I've surrounded myself with people who are intelligent enough and compassionate enough to help me if I should slip off the edge.



And for a second poem, one that takes an idea and runs with it, so that it isn't quite fiction nor non-fiction.

Falsehood

You tease out words like future

and paint images of gardens

and kitchens, and mason jars.

Juggling glittering ideals of the path

you see laid out before me,

light dancing in your eyes

of these concepts you weave the way

forward. A fence is between us,

cut from my eyes across your teased

words and paths. You do not know 

my feet, my womb, my fingernails.

The difficulty lies in the colours

bursting in my night sky,

wrenched from between my clenched limbs,

even if I made it to fifty-four.

(2014)