My Poetry: your Hands

Your Hands

---

Your fingers,
trace my cheek
where tears had been,
as your body
envelopes mine,
I am vulnerable, again.

Your hands,
like water and sun
to wilting daisy
in parched savannah,
has awakened life
inside of me.

Before you came:
before warm
touch of palm
refreshed diluted body,
I was just another
museless poet.

But your fingers,
oh, how your fingers enthrone
this pauper's heart
to mighty king;
turn abstract being
to flesh and blood, again.

 

My Poetry: Portrait of a Mum, aged 16.

Portrait of a Mum, aged 16.

---

She stares up from old sweet tin
like a silent movie star
or waning moon in night sky;
a disjointed image,
from a pixelated past

in plain, navy dress
blonde hair worn long
across the shoulder,
strong and defiant and naïve
she leans against a fountain,
in old sea-side town.

A shy girl thrust into adulthood
while still a child,
a belly full of her future
just showing,
like a far off uncharted mountain
she'd conquer alone.

That old familiar smile
captured in frameless photo,
seen since on nights drawn out
in reds, black and blues,
nights a shoulder became
a pillow for her greying locks.

A smile painted across
flawless pale canvas;
she is still flawless,
but the canvas is now full
of lines, like a crumpled pad
of discarded half sentences.

If only she could've known
the last half would be, it'll be okay
when dust finally settles on day.