The spider creates a web
catching the sighs
of lost souls
Footprints on the road
tattoos of dust
that won�t last.
Inspired by Arundhati Roy�s The God of Small Things-
Monsoon.
Bright sudden showers
Short sun filled snatches.
An arum lily swallows a bee
and smiles with satisfaction
watching the mourners go by.
Iron flowers lick the wind
tasting,
like a snake,
the air.
Glass cut showers
from a stained glass window,
shattering over the floor,
painting it red with blood.
Unrhymed sonnet, inspired by Lorca
The reeds quiver like two lovers� bodies,
fingertips tremble, the closeness of touch,
a palm, touching another�s symmetry,
a heat passing from one to the other,
breath breathed in unison, winds soft caress,
wind ripples the water, eyelids flutter,
a flitter of tension, as lips touch lips,
silently in a butterfly soft kiss,
brief, indescribable as birds in rain,
innocent lovers� lips waver in the
dizziness of anothers� aroma,
drunk on the scent of each others� warm skin,
watching intently through innocent eyes,
reeds tingle with lovers� expectation.
The wind�s silent eye watches
through the dream catcher at the window
catching the dreams of those long gone.
The wind whips and pulls
unfurling the web of memories,
the childlike expression.
The past untangles
from my hair.
Mirror�s eye
A quiet eye watches,
waiting for me to fall,
to catch the mirrored pieces
(each a broken memory)
sharp shards of glass
to be placed back together,
like a forged patchwork of the past.
I see myself,
Captured, trapped inside
tangles of dreams.
It�s watching for souls to catch,
to take into its world
of reflected images,
recaptured hopes.
It turns smiles upside down,
shines back and dazzles passers by,
confusing even the breeze
with a silent eye watching.
How poems start (after Dorothy Porter)
Is this how poems start?
When a flower catches your skin,
no longer delicate, but fierce.
Is this how poems start?
When the moon appears new
and trees rasp the sky.
Is this how poems start?
When nothing appears as it was
but as it never could be,
when the sun rises at night
among stars.
Does a poem start
when a flower catches your skin?
Room
The room I never enter
enters me
in my dreams
like a spirit
a nightmare.
I feel like a child,
scared of my shadow,
holding my breath for fear of being heard.
The room lives in me
like butterflies in my stomach,
the flies I know are buzzing
like a dark hole I�d half forgotten.
A place where daylight itself gets up to hide.