The mind is a time machine,
A look back upon our lives machine,
Think forward with our mind machine.
But there’s a difference between what you saw
And what you see, through a growing and different
Set of the same eyes.
Between two lives – A poem (+ photos)
It’s all a part of life’s flux, the growing pains,
the stiffening ache – perhaps just the body’s lullaby.
Stop trying to move while curled and cocooned
Just rest before becoming a butterfly.
What the dream people see – A poem
I’m told I was conjured from a flickering light,
Or dancing phosphenes –
Dots of red and blue and green
Arranging to become me.
But I don’t remember it any more than
A child remembers being born.
Then again, I don’t remember life at all.
You keep me in the present – A poem
With you there are no daydreams
Or holding on to night dreams.
You are all my dreams in one.
A pocket dream in the coat of reality,
A door opened to a world bigger on the inside with
Life chaotically everywhere,
But in here it is still and only ever now.
Songs in the skull – A poem
To day dreaming-ly hum is perhaps
My brain’s break
From my own thoughts,
Because it feels like somebody else
Is thinking them.
Machine Brain
A forty minute bumpy ride, with engine rumbles disrupting the air that I hear but don’t listen to and even the voices that fill my diminishing personal space are just white noise in my quiet. Somehow I’d forgotten how to lose myself in thought. I’d forgotten what escape was. I’d forgotten that this time was…
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Writing poems with song lyrics
Trees watch those who feel midnight on their wings silhouetted against dust and perilous dreams- walking through drearily sweeping loneliness. Moonbeams purple in windows and eyes, sweet lilac wonder sings above the sky. Hands bottle every dusty pleasure, forgotten timeless souls, imagination running wild, butterflies settle caught in their mind.
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Fleeting Flowers – A poem
Even the pinkest pinks will fade
Eventually, perhaps to a dusty rose,
The open becomes closed, even
The prettiest flower will cease to glow.
Bold days turn to cold days, even the smoothest
Petals fold, soon brown replaces gold,
A shrivelled insignificance falls to the dirt,
But leaves space for a new bud to grow.
Squeaky Clean – A poem
Immersed in bubble bath scents
And sensations, I breathe,
I breathe, I breathe deeply,
And the water softens my skin
And the warmth softens my mind.
In with fresh oxygen and out with
A build up of grime.
All eyes but my own – A poem
a rusted reflection,
speckled and smudged
to wipe away is only
to smear the picture
a sun-bright ghost
in a hazy window
obscured by the dusty
remnants of raindrops
