Silly Little Poems, vol 4

I notice everything.

The way the sun felt on my skin on a particular day with a certain person. The way the sand felt as I wiggled my toes into it, as we sat eating ice cream in the place I used to call home. The tiniest parts of days of any sort of significance seem to weld themselves into my memory.

The beautiful thing about that is that when I’m writing about my memories, I remember every part of it. Not just what I did, but movements, the smells, the sensations. I can mentally transport myself to a moment, rather than simply recalling the logistics of it.

I suppose that really helps with poetry.

Starling

Jet black ghost,
oh gentle cloud,
dance upon sunset skies.

Tell us,
with your wings,
who you are.

Allow us to marvel,
to wonder,
of every mile soared,
of the pale suns left
behind.

Return to us,
shelter beneath the pier.
Celebrate, each night,
the place we call
home.

REM

Gentle eyes,
surrender.
Take me
to dreamland -
to hidden corners,
to places of my own
creation.

Gift me the weightless feeling,
let my limbs float,
allow me to wander,
yet inhibit me from running.

To moments of wonder,
of magical manifestation,
that may only exist
beneath my lashes.

A world which bends
to me -
for me -
without resistance.

Where only the most tender
of touches
is permitted to graze
my skin.

Oh, gentle eyes, please
take me
to dreamland -
So that I might
feel anything
at all.

Blue

Sweet vanilla,
turquoise swirl,
plastic spoons
and paper tubs.

Discarded sandals
and prickling skin,
as the sun melted
into the horizon.

It’s bubblegum,
you insisted.
I let you think you were right.

Elsewhere

Me and you,
let’s run away
to the countryside.

Let the daisies brush our ankles
as we wander.

No-one will find us there,
a world
we can call our own.

I could even pack a picnic -
if you wanted -
I know jam sandwiches
are your favourite.

Falter

Lies, lies, lies,
those butterflies –
you know it’s anything but.

It’s lurching,
acid,
panic,
heat.

A glance,
to find they’re already looking.
Or grazing knuckles.
Or an eyeline that lingers,
too low,
too long,
too soon.

Why, oh why,
do they call it butterflies,
when there is nothing soft
or elegant
about the sensation
in the slightest?

Butterflies in name,
but not in nature –
only that they disappear
when you reach for them.

Prayer

Stitch yourself into my existence,
burn into my soul,
let my name linger on your tongue.

Entangle our fingertips
and our breath,
find and lose yourself,
within me.

Seal us together with tomorrow.
May the days and nights
be ours,
eternally.

Writing has become a passion of mine as stay-at-home mum. If you enjoy my work, you can support it here:

Tip Jar