Let Me Tell You Why

They saw her as a freebooter
Who was loutish and uncouth.
In reality, it was denigration

That made her punctured with untruths.
She decided to be delphic.
Only seen in shimmers of light.
She wanted to avoid goading those
Who wanted her out of sight.

They say she slipped into the sun,
Not even a shadow left behind.

The empty house couldn’t talk to them
To explain the reason why.
I wish this tale was sapid
But it is one that reverberates
And it is a problem that is endemic
Of those who act when its too late.

Don’t go along with treating someone as lesser than
Then be shocked to see the back end of moving van.

Mum, it was the elves!

Honey, where did my chocolates go?
There’s now only just a few.
There were hundreds of them in the jar.
Honey, what did you do?

I saw the little bugger, I did
At roughly half past twelve
It ran with them into the garden.
Mum, it was an elf!

Where’s my favorite hairdryer gone?
It was fairly new.
I swear I saw it in your hands.
Honey what did you do?

They stole it while you were in the bath,
They chuckled to themselves.
That is where the hairdryer’s gone.
Mum, it was the elves!

Have you seen my favourite glass?
The one that’s navy blue.
Wasn’t it in your room last night?
Honey, what did you do?

While we lay asleep last night.
They took it from the shelves.
They moved it to the kitchen fridge.
Mum, it was the elves!

Do not dare lie to me.
I know none of it is true.
There were no elves in the bloody house;
I know that it was you!

ADHD Ribbons

The world

                                                                            Feels like swirling ribbons

                                         That wrap around me in whirlwinds.

I try to grab on to one

                                                                                                                            But the silk slips through my hands.

                                     I try to follow one

But the spinning makes me sick

                                                                        And I stumble to the ground.

Is it possible,
For one,
Single,
Moment,

To stop

the earth

spinning?

Dark Alleyways

TW: Assault

When walking down
Dark alleyways at night
I feel like a pheasant
In the middle of shooting season,
Bred for the hunt
Of men with guns.

Am I to be blamed
For the power of a pistol?

Time To Go

Wandering’s my nature.
Staying still I get restless.
I’ve never had roots,
Always walked with roughed boots.

The wind strokes my hair,
Taps on my shoulders
And whispers,
It’s time to go.

First time I’ve left a home
Where I haven’t burnt it first.
The walls are still there
But change is in the air.

The wind strokes my hair,
Taps on my shoulders
And whispers,
It’s time to go.

I start to shiver and shake;
I don’t want to leave.
The birdsong is so pretty
Even though I built a city.

The wind strokes my hair,
Taps on my shoulders
And whispers,
It’s time to go.

I know the future has no fear:
I’ll see figures of my dream.
Can I have one last glance?
Or do I not get a chance?

The wind just strokes my hair,
Taps on my shoulders
And whispers,
It’s time to go.

Empress Alexandra Romanov

TW Death

My room is not a prison:

Lilacs and lilies

Make my sweat the Riviera,

My fever

The heat of the Crimean sun.

Photos remind me

Of the people waiting

On the other side.

I swim in their memories

Like the sea

Off a British beach.

And when I walk again,

Nicky will be holding my hand

Until I reach the place

We are both destined for.

Newspaper Clippings

Newspaper clippings in your mind of things you would rather forget.

You’d prefer to live with ghosts than with these words of shame.

A ghost’s empty, feathery mist may be made of cold sorrow

But the edges contain the final remnants of happier times.

Newspapers are made of ash. Their success depends on burning hatred.

It makes everyone’s eyes sting and weep.

Walking Washing Machines

Have you heard of walking washing machines

Who move themselves through kitchens unseen?

When off they just lie

But when on they must fly!

Away with your clothes unclean.

Fragile Perfect Memories

I wish you could give us more time;

I have a chest of memories

Of untainted perfection

That will be injected

With sadness and loss

The moment you

Decide to

Turn the

Page.

Let

Me try

And capture

Butterflies in

Ink and pencil marks

So in future they may

Carry our love in open

Skies and be a reminder

Of fluffy blankets and movie…

Writing with the Night

A candle, my only companion, nonchalantly drips.

The trails form still pendulums:

Time doesn’t tick in the peaceful night.

My teas too hot, so I take small sips.

It’s a small hiatus in my writing rhythm

Where I bring new poems into the light.

People are confused; Why do I stay awake?

Ghouls and ghosts appear at midnight!

That’s not true: its an old friend’s welcome

Because I don’t have to worry (until day’s break)

About all my sensory problems.