a boundary and a butterfly

you mess me about, afraid to commit,

and I let you get away with it.

 

I’m scared that if I pin you down

you’ll punish me by flying away.

 

So do I let you flit among my flowers,

skim the best of my summer blooms,

 

while deep in my roots I feel unrest

as I’m sapped of what keeps me whole?

 

Or do I insist you choose a stem to sit on

that won’t always bend to your whim,

 

and risk losing your custom for good –

though at least I won’t be short-changed?

Reasons to stay, urges to go

Reasons

Walk in, chat, feel welcomed and held.

I’m rated by bosses, part of the meld.

Means a lot to belong, when everything else

could be me, alone, days become dense.

 

Urges

It’s regular work, though boring old admin

that takes me away from what I’ve been yearning.

Bored. Hate it. Feel something else is calling.

I can teach, write, blog, and be free.

 

Reasons

Fear of unknown is what keeps me here

and a deep-down blankie of safety.

If I leave, what’ll become of my time:

squandered, wasted, wishing-well drowned?

 

Urges

I can meet new people, be open to new things

Be alert and fit, not a slave to alarm rings.

 

Reasons

Can’t trust myself to follow my dream.

End up bereft, broke, regretting my tears.

 

Urges

Run out of urges. Can’t remember the pull

to be free of misery, detached from the dull.

 

Reasons

Perhaps there’s a part of me that isn’t done yet.

Maybe a lesson to learn, an unspun pirouette?

 

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.

stars in disguise

The melancholy moon, with a

bite out of its side,

does a smiley for the stars

surrounding.

The constellated night jewels

catch my breath,

lining up for their sightly

performance.

Minor. Major.

Who cares what key

they play their twinkly

chords in.

Their well-placed face,

their bling, their show,

will make the dark more

bearable.

Yet the brightest one

I only have eyes for:

It squeezes my heart’s

accordion.

For Day Two of NaPoWriMo: a poem about stars

I can’t find my mother

I can’t find my mother in work,

but I can locate her

in the deepest of hurts.

I can’t find my mother when I drive,

as people cut me up, in the

conflict they contrive.

I can’t find my mother when I cry

for what I’ve lost

and my lungs are turned dry.

I can’t find my mother in love

that’s pretend; a glamour

that’s just a rubber glove.

I can’t find my mother when

betrayal means bereft.

There’s nothing left then.