Poetry Drafts

Poetry Drafts / / By 
There’s irony hidden inside boxes
wrapped in red and silver and blue
shining paper of single use
under green plastic trees
sprayed with scents 
reminiscent of the world 
outside their walls.

There are boxes 
whispering of situational irony,
labels shouting tragedy, tragedy
of irony through soliloquies. 

There’s irony without metallurgy;
love without shiny paper;
tragedies arising from empty bottles;
but only the world outside these walls
can ever bring me comfort,
or hope.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
There’s no Santa Close 
nearby the stocking 
in the plastic bag
in the box 
in a box 
in a box
somewhere in an attic 
not far away from an airfield 
reserved for reindeers 
this time of year.  

There’s no Santa Clause
stipulating sizes on boxes
in boxes
in boxes
with plastic bags and stockings;
why not?

There’s no Santa Claus nearby. 
There’s no Santa in my life anymore 
than there was a hundred years ago
when boxes were wrapped,
under living trees with baubles
reflecting the happy dreams
of youth.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Sudden Death Syndrome
a Kamikaze Cataclysm,
the Divine Wind
sings the Songs of Victory,
Lights out and —
all cheerful banter fades
beHind
buShes,
beFore
tiMe comes to a hal—

Poetry Drafts / / By

Love me, like you loved before
time became a chain, rust and
raspberries in a field of dreams
in a neighbourhood of old woes,
strained eyeshadow and lipgloss
and the bottles
stashed under broken benches
and the sweet smoke lingered
between their grey towers.

Love me like you loved them;
I am different
-ly shaped, but love is love
and love is
(they say)
a meaning, purpose, and answer
to questions I’ve yet to ask.

Love me,
and all will be alright
(they say)
in days and nights of passions
bought with credit
card, cards, stacks of borrowed
love
dropped in a desolate field
— of dreams.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Creative spirits never die,
their embers merely slumber
with every waning moon above,
only to reawaken
at the slightest sign of sparks:
a word hidden amongst other words;
a tired thought of spite;
or the musings over memories
returning out of place;
all tickling the spirit’s soul
like venom to a snake;
passions, the essence of fire
for any creative soul,
burns to fuel the flames
of all innate artistry;
spirits walk and roam,
runs towards the silent rooms
to find another’s burning desire
— waiting to reignite.

Poetry Drafts / / By

I crave pancakes on a stick,
cloudberry mash and
reconstituted belly fluff,
lint tickling my curiosity
of rain that hover
and never fall.
I crave valid arguments,
valid lies in a truth-less world
with pancakes
— on a stick

Poetry Drafts / / By

Every night, I watch you mount
reach for my outstretched arms,
fingers clasping, shadows dancing
in the humming darkness of night.

Every night, I watch you
and your faceless apparition,
seeking recognition of friend or foe,
before kissing everything
that is you.

Every night, I watch you heave
breathe life into the inanimate,
before the humming stops
as the church bell tolls
a cry for midnight.

Every night the same plight,
in darkness you depart
in darkness you ride
in darkness you come
before I open my eyes

to the perpetual silence
in the darkness you left behind.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Don’t react to my message
You are my flesh and blood,
respond and reveal yourself 
but don’t react, don’t react
to what I said, reply respond
but don’t react, don’t distract 
the reasons for being.
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