Helpless branch
must bend to
my dance,
feel my whim
and respond.
you are stationery,
I am free.
Hear my song
and sing
for me.
(Rough poem) Secret
Soft as comfort,
a touch of security.
A teasing gesture,
but a deep affection.
A promise for eternity,
with a hint of greed.
Fear of loss buried
from one simple touch.
A message,
a secret.
Can you hear
its purpose?
Gentle Avalanche
Frozen moments fall from the sky.
Their snowflake forms containing
tiny disasters.
They have settled,
and wait to melt.
Blinding light is the sun’s
entrance, rays cutting through the
dead land.
Braving the cold bites,
we pull on layers, suffocating
with a hat and tightly wound scarf.
Stepping out, we can only breathe.
Now only water remains,
colourless, see-through,
impossible to stop slipping
through our fingers.
Some seeps into the ground,
back into the world.
The sun claims the rest,
evaporated, invisible, but still
we’re watching it go,
knowing next time it may
return as hail.
Any droplets left behind
are wiped away by an
absent-minded sleeve.
St. Nectan’s Glen
A small waterfall for all to see,
guiding the lost souls to where they must go.
A haven for memories, come to me,
allow me into the eternal flow.
Three come down the narrow path,
an item of memory in their hand,
from times I was happy, times I would laugh,
living with them, not resting in this land.
They choose a tree branch, a good sturdy one,
and dangle an angel from a long string.
I see they have missed me since I’ve been gone,
his finger still carries my wedding ring.
Too soon they turn back, leaving me here,
but with the water’s sound I feel no fear.
My voice
Hear my voice
trapped on this page.
My vibrations
making no sound.
Feel in this ink
my personality
and know how
I intended you to
know me.
Visualise with these
lines my lifted head
and fixed gaze,
showing you which
words should be emphasized.
Respond to my pauses
with silence…to grant
me control of the world
my words are in.
Can you hear
me from this page?
Or will you come and
find my voice?
My Muse
What form has my muse arrived in tonight?
Poking me awake, demanding attention.
Which character now demands me to write?
Is it Arwel, clever and always right,
his mask hiding a growing confession.
What form has my muse arrived in tonight?
His secrets he tried to keep from my sight,
but I lead him to his revelation.
Which character now demands me to write?
Nat is lazy and never comes at night,
a teenager wishing for a pension.
What form has my muse arrived in tonight?
Dimitri is stubborn, he hates to fight,
Finding his sister his one obsession.
Which character now demands me to write?
My plot grows with these visits in the night,
my head now a character convention.
What form has my muse arrived in tonight?
Which character now demands me to write?
Tsundere Translation
You speak a secret language
only I can translate.
I’m cold
(let me sleep in your bed)
Get off me!
(never let go)
I hate it when you do that.
(how do you know to do that?)
Stop saying embarrassing things!
(I want to hear more)
I don’t care if you leave.
(…why am I crying?)
I don’t care if you die.
(my whole body feels cold)
You’re not important.
(you’re everything)
I hate you.
(I love you)
…Why are you still here?
Others don’t realise
who you really are.
That’s okay.
I want to be the only one.
My doubt
Sit there in my mind
and seep up my life.
Live out my memories
and poke at my mistakes.
Judge my private thoughts
and consider me unworthy.
While I live my life
you will bring me down;
but I will live my life
while, outside me,
you don’t exist.
Falling
A man you never knew is now
demanding you know him.
You stare back, unchanging.
His eyes move away but the smile
does not waver.
A life-time ago this man
loved you, cradled you
with a stranger’s touch.
A phantom in your life
wearing that smile.
A hand reaches out but
stops before it connects.
The smile intensifies.
A day later you try to remember
why you should hate him.
When I see you embrace
I know that, like me,
no one had to knock you down,
you’re already falling.
Footsteps
You’re trying to follow in his footsteps,
echo the pace of his long gone footsteps.
Small fingers struggle to tie the laces,
secure your feet, imitate his footsteps.
Wishing for a father who would have stayed,
Too young to protest against his footsteps.
Your feet are too small to fit in his shoes,
your posture too weak to hold his footsteps.
Years later, he’s gone but the shoes remain,
tempting you to slip into his footsteps.
Stepping into his shoes, they’re still too big.
You can never follow in his footsteps.
Scribbled Thoughts 