one dot six one eight

When I was young, and spiteful,

I held my brother’s toy through the window

and let it fall the shortest path,

headed for a six year old’s revenge.

 

I don’t know the laws that govern descent.

Regardless, they drive soft cotton flesh to meet

scraps of lawn

with sharp precision.

 

And there are laws that govern growth.

When plants grow towards the light they too

follow the path

which leads them soonest to their goal.

 

I see this on my sill,

a rose with golden sunlight on its green,

and golden numbers

in the spiral of its red

 

Beauty and efficiency can be kin,

but I do not see efficiency

in the down of your ear,

or the curve of your calf.

You could be governed by nothing so harsh,

even though I am falling for you

by the shortest path.

 

Originally published by AYLY, and Oxford Magazine.

one dot six one eight

old growth

humanity’s death started as a fashion.

bodies stained dollar bill green,

and cells verdant with foreign genes

growing into us, as ivy grows

into old brick.

 

escape from city life

with the clean air seeping from your pores.

greenhouse gases – now your slaves, and your sugars.

better to farm yourself than to rape the earth.

saving the world – a side-effect of free food,

and guilt-free minds.

 

but those seeds took root too deep.

forests grew from our flesh, swollen and rough.

when it rips, count rings –

new skin for each year passed.

 

hands that once held chainsaws and coffee cups,

now splintered.

a cascade of skeleton branches, and leaves

quivering with sunrise

that bleed when broken.

 

This placed in the finals of the Parallel Universe Poetry Competition.

old growth

Memories of sunlight at St Mary’s School

Everyday, parts of me die

in the most predictable manner.

By the time I finish this sentence, another thousand gone;

skin cells

quietly ruptured.

 

Death becomes mundane when so regimented,

so unselfish.

There is no drama in keeping to schedule,

none in the greater good,

when all you leave is dust

remembered

only when passing through sunbeams.

 

This was originally published by The Swan.

Memories of sunlight at St Mary’s School

Closed Curtains

Three days now

spent stale in the refuge

of my bed,

tucked between cupboard

and potted fern,

bought in a hopeful moment

of self-care and

function.

 

I think I peaked

at seventeen.

Why else

would a sixth form savant

be eight hundred pages deep

in Stephen King,

to escape the four due next week.

 

Three days of morning.

A quilt cocoon, and the same

cornflakes

poured for breakfast

lunch

and dinner

a fair exchange

for any moments stolen

from knowing that I

am not good enough.

 

Originally published by Forward Poetry: Mind Matters 2 anthology.

Closed Curtains