Impending

standing onflciff

Feet curl over the edge of the cliff,

close to flying
ready to soar,
heart of a drum.

Anticipation brews in my sinking stomach.

Time is a flutter:
the future is impending.

Success is sickly sweet
but love is my greatest accomplishment
so far.
The rest will come.
The fog will clear and I will soon see
the bottom, ready.

Jump.

Fingers and toes tingle with adrenaline
Stomach flipping, fear released.
Eyes sewn shut by apprehension – open.

Alive with freedom and choices.

I fly into the sun,
free to venture wherever
the wind may take me.

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Walking Stardust

dreamcatcher1


Walking Stardust

Breathing in the warmth of your skin,
your eyelashes flutter like petals, sleeping.

I stare into the dusty black room.
Light creeps through the blinds.
Hitting the wall with its luminous glow.

A romantic feeling pulses through the layers of my skin.

I am optimistic that no other being will
make me feel the way you do.

We are walking stardust,
bound together by emotion.

A dream catcher hangs at the end of our bed.
An origin that negativity can be captured
and rays of light can be bestowed upon
a sleeping mind.

It watches, protects, believes
in us.

The infinity of our love,
our connection.
our worth.
our dreams.

This is one of the poems from my final poetry portfolio at university. The poem is in its early stages, we are learning about innovative forms and how poetry can be presented in a different way this year and my idea with this poem, is to write the different stanzas on small pieces of paper, hole punch them and attach them to a dream catcher with string. I will post a photograph in a few months of the final piece but for now… this is the first draft of my poem Walking Stardust.

Foreign Words

Thank you in different languages

My eyes are derelict.
Infant and fresh.

Absorbing foreign words, foreign faces.

My mother tongue,
tangled,
twisted,
amongst vowels
of confusion.

Their faces shine with
welcoming eyes.
A barrier present,
cold and strange.

Muttering, handshakes,
kisses – swapped and selected.
Twist of culture, language and value.
Holland.

60 minutes by plane.
60 differences from home.

Far away
from little
home comforts.

Of familiarity, warmth and English idioms.

My mind is washed
with the dizziness
of change.

Landing home, a relief.

(First Draft Of Foreign Words For My Poetry Portfolio)

Street Corners

canal at nighrt

Caution lurks
behind every street corner.

In the early morn.
Dusty blue and sapphire ignite,
forming patterns
in the sky.

Panting heart quickens.

Racing even, mimicking dangers that
– Do. Not. Exist.

Heightened fear in the darkness.
Over the bridge,
water resembles – thick, black liquid.

Slithering away.
Opaque
Ambiguous.

Reflecting the light of the moon
soon-to-be sun.

Delicate Flower

delicateflower
Delicate, white flower.
Untouched by fear.

Lost in paradise.
The sky is clear.

Floating on the
surface of blue.

Delicate flower
absorbs the view.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Rain is declining
from misty grey.

Darkness steals
the light of day.

Delicate flower
trapped in storm.

The tide is turning
changing form.

White fades,
no longer pure.

Delicate flower
has to endure.

Fear, loss
tears and pain.

Delicate flower
soaked by rain.

————————

Limp, lifeless
almost dead.

Delicate flower
lifts its head.

Peeping through
the clouded grey.

Is a small beam
of light to guide the way.

Forgive

hands

Turning the corner alone, you left behind.
A daughter whose words were wise and kind.

Ripping apart all that is known.
Now all that is left is skin and bone.

The heart will heal, but respect is lost.
Change can have an unforgivable cost.

Desires of the future will never be the same.
The flickering light dims on the family flame.

The tie was love, but now just blood.
I would turn back the clock if I could.

On these separate islands that we now live.
We learn to accept and learn to forgive.

No amount of glue will fix the damage done.
One decision made. No one has won.

Living with guilt – worry – fear.
One day this earth won’t have you here.

Imperfect in your selfish way.
I choose in my life for you to stay.

Ending all this pain and strife.
For you were the one to give me life.

Heavy words lift off my chest.
I still have my mother and for that I am blessed.

White Butterfly

whitebutterfly

Elegant symbol
catches the light.

Ready to soar.
Wings expanding.

Flooded with freedom.
Any place is home.

Partners with blue
Friends with green.

One second to
admire her beauty.

One minute later
you remember her.

The white queen
of nature.

Restricted creature,
that blossomed one day.

The white queen
of the sky.

Playful, she seeks
she hides.

Playful, she
disappears.

Leaving a lasting
trail of beauty.

Writing Manifesto

writers-block
Staring at the white, hoping for
words. Hoping for salvation.
Wanting to give up. Breathe in
and out and close your eyes – relax.

Stand up and go for a walk, let
the blood flow around your body,
let it feed your mind. Let time
give you the power, let time
give you strength.

Remember that every thought
is important. Just write anything.

Sit back down with freshly peeled eyes.
You can do it. A few words, a phrase,
a fragment of a poem or a
stream of consciousness.

Remember that writing is a muscle.
It needs to be exercised daily.
Overusing the muscle can cause
injury. Not using the muscle
enough  can cause a build up
of negative energy of
‘I can’t do this.’

You can. You can do this.
Just write. Write anything.

Think of your words as reps, your
paragraphs as sets, your pages as
daily workouts. Writing is good
for your health.

 Think of your laptop as
the key to your imagination.
Explore the web for inspiration
but warning: this may cause
procrastination. You might
take a step backwards.

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz these
letters are your best friends, use them.
In any form that you like. You are in
control. Let your subconscious mind
open up to the possibilities of a blank page.

When you see the black and white bouncing
off the page – you will feel childlike once more.
Creating places, spaces – whatever your heart
desires. Just write. Don’t even think about it.

Mark Twain once said, Show, don’t tell.
But it is okay to tell all in a first draft.
This brings hope to the senseless mind.
This creates a story before your eyes.

Go back now and cut words, remember
that words don’t bleed. Words don’t have
feelings – so no attachments. Just cut.

Feel proud. Don’t discourage yourself.
Just re-write.. re-write and re-write
some more. Until the words bond with
the image of your imagination.

Waiting

waiting

Waiting for the
train to arrive.

Page
waiting
to be turned.

A freshly
printed novel.

Waiting to be
desired by
wise eyes.

A canvas of white,
longing for colour.

Patches of fresh
white snow
unmarked
by nature.

Waiting for the
rain to fall.

A gathering of
clouds aiming
their sights
on the last
patch of blue.

Anticipation.

Waiting for the
lost to get found.

A flower in
bloom stops
to look at
the sky.

Waiting for the
future to arrive.