Origami Swans

Eyes wander over grazed, stained arms
skin thin as canvas
stretching over bone
framing a piece of art so frail
its pigment begins to fade,
paint cracks feather over
every detail
as blurring narratives
fade into
sunlit backdrops

Cut fingers
and pin pricked minds
trace over
origami thought
wrapping lace bandages
over nics
and accidental incisions
sewing stories onto
paper
in bespattered paint

The room swarmed with paper swans
as the floor turned to red

Melt with the wind

We met at first in the Autumn
she had a cold.
her nose pinched as red as a raspberry
her distant Welsh accent
peering from behind
her nasal toned voice
and thick woolen scarf
teal,
her favourite colour,
fortunately,
as it complimented her eyes
in a way that made hem glow-
she glowed,
in a world so desaturated by tragedy,
she radiated colour
and with this gift she bought hope.

Her name at this point
is still unknown
but the urge to call her my own
is stronger than any
formation of syllables
could ever be.

For our first date
she took me somewhere
I had never been before,
the world seemed different
to me on this day,
its sky a richer shade of amber,
its air sweeter
than it had ever tasted before.
My mind more focused
on the temperature of her hands
than the world at our feet.

It is upon reflection
that I now realise,
it was not the season
that had changed
but something within me
the sepia tinted leaves
and apple scented sky
was of her creation
her hands moulded around
the earth,
contorting it to her design.

She stepped back
and watched it bloom
through my eyes
watched the seasons
come and die
and her lips began to curve
as she watched the leaves
shrivel with age
and melt with the wind
she laughed at the sound
of their crumpled corpses
as she danced upon their graves.

Within her heart,
she holds
that childish enthusiasm
for the minor details,
I often watch
as she gazes upon
a glitter of dust,
or rainbow of colour
dancing through the air.

My heart quivers
at the thought of growing old,
her skin melting like snow,
bones crumbling like sugar
her tears will fall like rose petals-
like autumn leaves
we will melt with the wind

Never before have I attempted to write a poem at such length from the point of view of a male protagonist. The idea for this piece sprang from the film Ruby Sparks: a beautiful fulm about a writer who's character comes to life and they embark on a life changing relationship. I explored the moment shared between to characters upon their first meeting and built upon the relationship from their. It was refreshing to create a characters so refreshingly simple for once and these two unnamed characters are ones that I will be working with in the near future.

Fragile Touches

Fragile touches

Grazing over sun-kissed skin

Lips stumbling over

Hushed lullabies and simple songs

Silent whispers pass

From one mouth to another

Exchanging stories from

Days come and gone

Fragile

I feel the warmth

A fresh vulnerability

Untainted

Unspoken 

I have been so scared to post this poem, I finished it weeks ago after over a month of worrying about it. It's not my best poem by far, but it is one that I am proud of. 

Also just a note to say thank you to all of my readers, who continue to read my posts, I sincerely appreciate all of your support.

Floral Decay

A room full of floral decay
That bittersweet smell of mixed perfumes
Lingers, and the waft of stale summer air
Waltzes down the aisle
That awkward time stuck between
A blistering summers day
And the ice frosted night
A note to congratulate the bride
And the groom
That couple that wont even last the night
Divorces are expensive I think
As the pen hits the paper

As part of a task I was given a random: object, setting and time of day. I got: a wedding in a church, a letter and the afternoon. I really don't know how this managed to take such a depressing (yet comical) turn as I was planning on something rather romantic.

On The Mantelshelf

The glistening ornaments shone in the misty sunlight, crystals, glasses of green and red- diamonds, the children giggled, wide eyes gazing into the empty cottage. Through fear the wind may catch the door, they creaked it open slowly and before shutting the latch behind them. Like boys in a candy store the girls marveled at the decorative creations, glazed eyed and open mouthed.Millie, being only 16 and still violently naive, stretched out a hand, leaning towards an old oak music box, before having it violently snatched away by Lou. "Do you want to wake her?" she hissed silently before resting the box back in its place.

Picking a random paragraph in a book of childrens stories I put pen to paper and chose to continue the story with just one more paragraph. Knowing nothing about the story (after having read only one paragraph) i chose to focus on the naive nature of the two girls and their child like facination with the ornaments on Miss Parsons mantelshelf.

Work In Progress Poem