the bite of my inner wolf

inktuition wolf and moon

I’ve always been afraid of you,

since you first terrorised my dream,

sank your teeth into my innocent forearm,

leaving droplets of freckle blood.

I always leapt onto my childhood bed

knowing you lay beneath,

ready to reach out and swipe with a paw

any sign of vigilance weak.

The cool of your eye made me fear my blue

avoiding it as alien to me.

Better my red, to warn you off,

keep me safe from your knowing prowl.

And yet you haunt my waking life:

on your hind legs now, you smirk at my work.

As if you can’t bear for my truth to break free

you keep me caged in your mockery.

If you were my friend, I’d keep you my pet

to bite at my enemies instead.

Yet that’s what I let you do to me:

keeps me superior, smug, lonely, apart.

Wolves are meant to hunt in packs

so why did I get you alone?

Why are you lost, tormenting me so?

Do wolf and go howl at the moon.

(pic courtesy of nixxphotography/freedigitalphotos.com)

the one who gets under my skin

the one who gets under my skin

is needy, lays back,

waiting to be fed;

but what I put on the plate

will never be enough:

it’s too late, too meagre,

too tasteless, too wrong.

 

the most sumptuous feast

will never sate

the appetite that devours;

bones are sucked dry

teeth are picked

a sneer that reeks of menace

mocks my begging bowl

as I wait for a tiny morsel

of gratitude.

 

I won’t stop cooking for good

but I have to stop buttering you up

with dishes I don’t even like,

puddings far too fancy

mains that betray their true meat,

and sides that sell their soul.

I have to accept, finally,

that even the finest recipe

made to your exacting order

will leave me tasting your bile.

angry red sofa has its day

inktuition frayed leather sofa

The red of the leather, so plump at first

was anger at my loss of you.

A sofa bought on a whim and no prayer

landed in a space so skewed.

Seven years on, the rage has worn out,

as has the leather so sad.

What was once a feisty young thing

has withered to become an old hag.

No one wants her, she’s past her time,

that rage has burnt itself out.

All that’s left is the bits of her

that litter the vacuum’s tight butt.

the woe of the workaholic

for those never-repeat moments,

shame I don’t have space

is the love of who rubs close

what matters really

 

the time to figure out

life, and youth and heart,

it’s all too consuming, of

the allure of work

 

mood grumping

productivity slumping

I’m a weak iron filing

my desk’s a deadly magnet

 

A poem for Day 30 of NaPoWriMo: a poem in reverse (last line first)

my near-erasure

The pencil, always so poised,

so sharp, so in fashion,

came, one day, to feel its own lead.

The spine within became buckled,

twisted, fantasising

about its own death.

The point became lost,

worn down to a stub, where

nothing, but nothing, was left

but the scratchings of a soul

looking to transcend bereft.

A poem for day 21 of NaPoWriMo 2015: the erasure