there, across the water

there

across the water

all the right angles

gathered

in a manufactured

miasma

numbers stacked

like buttresses

each window

a portrait

each

towerblock

a gallery

the way he drags his pen

across the paper

that zen like place

he floats to

in the copy room

listening

to the whir and churn

like a small engine

the warmth

of each

thick stack he carries

to the comb

binder

the boat

and the bridge

there to tease

to tussle

he pulls

on the anchor of his day

as if to say

lets go

lets

just

leave

across the water

offered as part of One Shot Sunday care of One Stop Poetry, photograph by Scott Wyden

tongue tied dawn

tongue tied dawn

pared embers

unstoked

calm....across the skyline

inked silhouette of trees

frayed metaphors

convalescing

some mornings

like this morning

the sun

hard edged

and bright

colours the invisible ink

in my right arm

I see the curve of the 'b'

half an arch of 'm'

I remember

the painless joy of it

what joy was to me

then

10 years ago I cut "I am bad" into my right arm amidst a mental breakdown.

via the wonderous Shân Ellis:

"It’s mental health awareness week this week. Did you know that one in three people suffer from a mental illness at some point in their lives? I’m proud to hold my hand up and be counted, post natal depression almost destroyed me three years ago. Thank you to all the professionals who helped at this time. Let’s talk about it, not hide it up."

Please read her pertinent words here

offshoot

sometimes that prettiness

I can't touch it

the one you hear in love songs (and feel in feathers)

serated edges

sharp teeth

blood drawn

skin pulled

tight

where's the realness

my realness

the shape

the weight

my gravity

my own

unique

alchemy

I smell the dust

and ash

of other people thoughts

and I steal them

I eat them

I wonder

I think

too much

in too many directions

wash me in the river

clean

with my own thoughts

alone

restless

in the embers

restless

breathing ink

into silent water

noise

an ephiphany

dance

on the fine line

the sharp shifting

simmering line

of your borderless

mind

grasp the edges

with your fingertips

shake

your

mould

this

is

commodified

deified

testified

and petrified

fear

so dark

and black

and thick

an oil spill

in your heart

density

no evil

not even a wall

a substance

you must walk through

walk through and feel

and feel

and feel

so the contours of your body

are ingested like a map

compass

a pulse

repeating

a pulse

repeating

shadow hands and feet

an old sunday all mixed up

the ghost in my throat coughs out

an old sunday

all mixed up

walking

the subway

between museums

wading

through Brick Lane

on market day an urban river

cascading trinkets sandalwood incense

headless statues, my head to their shins,

shins that come alive

at night

shaking all the stillness out

moroccan spices blend with expensive perfume

and the boho chic

of the moneyed

antique typewriters chandeliers

beer in plastic cups

the sound of it

splashing

on the cobblestone

as the dreadlocked man

draws a beautiful woman

into his arms

reeled in by a fishing line of light

I walk the longhall filled with stained glass

colours dancing

on the polished floor

old men with beards stuck in windows

people nod sagely

at histories

I dont understand

the room, filled with squares

squares on squares

and in them paint

faces, some I'm drawn to

I wish I knew them

tapestries

looming

in a cool room

dark, and just me

them

and me

a battle fought across the walls

an arrow to the chest

how many hands?

how many needles?

the smallest scarecrow

the puffed

straw stuffed chests

of the older bogles

strained

through their sackcloth clothes

the smallest scarecrow

banished

to the barren lands

face bevelled

by desert winds

his one leg

frayed

into many

his outstretcehd

arms

bent in

the smallest scarecrow

the talk

of arable lands

"have you heard?"

"he walks!"

"no crows?"

"no crops?"

photo by Rosa Frei

offered as part of One Stop Poetry's One Shot Sunday