Drowning Waking Dream

Some poems I'm daft enough to share.


Drawing

Eleven: Super-badged in nylon
a chevron glowing on my chest
soaring with eagles closer to the sun than anyone
two parts joy to three parts pride
five parts high on me

Until all that was left was to fall.
So I did.
Comming to at twenty four.
Years had passed floundering -
                                         soaked in invisible ink.

At Thirty-Five I finally felt alive

and in command again: forming a charcoal line
around the shapes I recognised.

Now at Forty-four, I’m less persuaded on what is certain

for if 'the book is read before it is written'*

reality cannot draw its own final curtain.

*line pilfered from Marc Auge.

Drowning Waking Dream.


In heroine's garb
I biked to victory,
but cycled from the path
into darker water.

Inkiness soaked me   
my costume loosened.
I knew I should get free,
but my wayward hands

gripped too tightly and we
met the riverbed as one;
the bike and Super Me.
Engrossed in my descent
I forgot not to breathe -

A seeking nostril drew
moist pillow air. Deftly
damp cotton twirled around
'til the fingers gave in.

I rose for miles and miles
effortlessly
via submerged skate parks,
reflected cedar trees,
verdigris shoals of bream.
I grasped at them
but failed to stay and dream.

~