Intermittent Writer

[nervous-poet]

Judgement Day

When they lined up all the men  With the first at the corner of the red building  They expected to see something  A revelation or spark of clarity  As if looking in all male eyes at once  The truth would become clear They questioned the boys through gestures  And skilful sighs and eyelashed eyes  The men stared back blankly In neat rows Blinking in unison Waiting Mouths stiff lipped and thirsty

[othellho]

Temporary Vows, Caroline Bird

[existentialyearning]

When Jonathan Safran said “Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.” and when Doc Luben said “How do we forgive ourselves for all of the things we did not become?"

[nervous-poet]

Wander back to me knight in the dark

The angels lost her way

Butcher, baker, and candlestick maker

No longer wish to stay

Metal serpants wrap around wrists

Pushing blood through broken seems

The crown upon the devils head

Is polished with broken dreams

Cries for you the piper

Follow the angles track

Guided by your candle

Wooden planks upon your back

Resting here legs off a ledge

Welcoming the cold

Taking a final leap of faith

Watch the story unfold

[nervous-poet]

Dreading February

Inevitably it returns

A flickering birthday candle

Leaving pastel coloured burns

Balancing on a knife

Crippling fear of the spoon

The forked path ahead

Chosen in February’s noon

[nervous-poet]

Mouse Trap

Cauterised limbs filed away into palatable plastic pieces

We knew our way around the skeleton 

My brother and I before I taught him to be ill

We would build smaller houses out of the larger houses 

Those that would become a shrine for who we were before

We were taught to always be hungry for more

I could trace the constellations in the sky 

Long before I learnt to map the ones on my body

Systemic greed for the end result

Always led to the game never being played

The fragility and balance needed for the set up 

Is something I am still learning to master

But it was my brother who learned to run before he could walk

[nervous-poet]

From Ana

I created the cosmos for you  Shooting stars behind eyelids The bruises becoming multiple galaxies  A speck of dust on this earth I have made you into a universe

The sparks down your arms A meteor shower  Your heartbeat an earthquake A natural disaster within  I have made you powerful

[nervous-poet]

His Wonderland

He waits all fates be See in dark sin, glee For another bite rather tore More than he can gnaw Sweet dust a just treat  Beat the odds, flee neat  Away from hearts drum day Delay forever, so never stay  Left behind, too kind, bereft.

[nervous-poet]

Marble Run

Golden children learn and play

Golden children share and stay

Golden children walk when asked

And golden children don’t come last

Golden children brush their teeth

Golden children weep in peace

Golden children cut their thighs

And golden children make up lies

Golden children suffocate

Golden children are found too late

Golden children burn their cells 

And golden children blame themselves

Hollowed out 

A marble piece 

Filled with doubt

Until they cease

[nervous-poet]

Re-examining Nature

The trees in the place I grew up have thick and strong limbs that touch a cloudy sky. With a glance it is clear they have been there for hundreds of years

They force a hand of glory and admiration with thick trunks trailing to the heavens. In the autumn they drop their leaves as an offering.

With the rumbling of a jet for the first time they appear small. Broccoli florets shoved into a bedding that will go on servicing them.

The trees in the place I live now are spindly, their leaves dehydrated and always looking as if they are on the brink of death. 

Often their roots crack back up out of the soil gasping for water. Appearing to be planted by an uneducated mass who have long since abandoned them. 

But these trees have stood there for thousands of years, they know their way around the ground on which they sit, they know how to wait for water. 

They will go on living here far longer than I. 

[nervous-poet]

PREVIOUSLY OWNED

Because a friend rode his bike to my house late one night

And he told me some stories that didn’t feel quite right

But I bottled them up next the key rings and books

That travelled with me before they were buried in nooks

And crannies that I found his message had carved in my soul

And the words continued to circle like oil in a bowl

Of hot water that you’ve left on the sink just to soak

And inevitably forgotten so you pull out the soap

And I scrubbed at the message

But it was like pulling at stitches

Which is why I had to make myself bleed for a minute

But that’s over now, just a few scars

And I’ve always preferred second hand cars

Because they come with a story, a previous life

The one I have now once helped a man transport his wife

To an appointment, a bookstore, a funeral parlour

And it’ll carry me too as I inch my way further

Away from who, what and where I used to be

And that’s the secret to what it means to be free

[nervous-poet]

Opening in OZ

The Tin Man, aptly named, Rusted still and alone reflecting back her history on his body hard as stone

The blood she spilled as lubricant called forth the fearful lion but cowards learn to embrace the stage when the other options an asylum

The lions mane boasted streaks of red When they found the scarecrow enlightened So Dorothy again took to the knife Extinguishing the frightened

Arriving to the emerald city it was only Toto left who had not feasted upon her blood recognising she was bereft

And while her slippers were ruby Her inside were without And although no horses colour changed Her own body did throughout

Dead that day among the poppies Her new friends all did mourn Dime a dozen Dorothy would never return to fields of corn

[nervous-poet]

Cue laughter that is used as a poultice for the sting of an insult you don’t quite understand. 

[nervous-poet]

The contagion we don't talk about

Frozen apples slices melt in my hand

Dribbling down the grave land

Small thin headstones lit up by the sun

A forced consideration of when this begun 

A plague no-one shall withstand

A locust colony living beneath my skin 

Bursting through and buzzing within 

The first took residency in my chest

Spawning offspring among the rest

Patient zero among my kin

I was the one who welcomed this in

[nervous-poet]

Backyard Cricket

It was the summer where you outgrew backyard cricket

The street was quiet

Aside from the cicadas

Who presence seemed more obnoxious than usual

Their screeches in the night 

A clear warning in hindsight

You retreated to a dark space 

To escape the heat

After three weeks lounging in it 

had turned your skin to a coffee tone 

Weakened with milk

This was expected, the routine

Your disappearance was not

After years of watching me hold the bat and driving the game

It was time you took over

And take over you did

Your swings were effortless

A sign of hours of practice

Alone and hidden from sight

You knew the rules

The layout of the field

The soft rumble in the distance 

That preceded the chorus of ‘car’

The best way to place your feet 

Infront of the chalk painted wickets

Keeping the fielders in the neighbour’s garden on edge

Hitting four after perfect four

Not the highest, but the safest score

Experiencing the fear of getting too good

And hitting a premature six and out

[nervous-poet]

Freedom

My sister spent a week with me. In a place where I have found freedom. When I drop her at the airline gate, after six days touring the coast, she begs me not to let her leave. As she departs through the tunnel I wave, I smile and nod in a reassuring matter. She texts me when she finds her seat, she wants to get off the plane. 

In the days she spent beside me, I find myself biting my tongue. She is too young for the lessons she has learnt, let alone to absorbs the ones I wish to teach. I am a teacher by nature and by trade so holding back feels unnatural. I worry I may scar her further if I reveal the difference eight years can make. Being older and therefore wiser I am torn between shielding her and preparing her. 

In this freedom where she feels safe, I want to tell her how she can have it too. But it would feel like a lie. It would be an omission of a severe magnitude to not tell her the cost. I want to tell her that freedom cost much more than the money I spent to move my belongings, and the car. It cost more than my extortionate rent and grocery bill. 

It cost a part of me, the part of me that held hope for better. To move I made peace with the new and accepted I would never have the fullness of family again. The part of me that could thrive in chaos and find adventure in my own bedroom. The part of me that believed in unconditional love. In fact, to tell her it did not cost me myself would not be truthful enough. 

I want to tell her how I only feel lonely when it is quiet. When my mind has time to wander, I lose myself retracing familiar stories in order to feel as though I belong. That although I escaped the world she lives in, it was only in physical form. I want to tell her that my freedom is conditional. Conditional upon being distracted. 

She should know that I need to be busy, I find enjoyment in it as idle hands lead to fear. I have absorbed myself in my work fully, at night I long for morning so my routine can begin again. My routine keeps me grounded to the floor of my freedom. She should know that freedom means slavedom to another. 

When I wake her each morning, I take a moment to imagine her being here is permanent. This feeling of freedom feels most prominent when she is here. As if I need to hold an old part close, and smell its scent, so that a breath of the new feels true. Indeed, it is her being here, on the occupied land that made me free, that allows me to see I am free. When I wake her each morning I contemplate my commitment to honesty. 

Being honest is all I have, the trait I acquired while crossing state lines, and as soon as those lines begin to blur, a side effect of her being here, I feel the trait begin to fade. I feel more free than I ever have been. 

[nervous-poet]

Pauper to Prince

Pauper to prince

He sits upon the throne

Aligning the pillows the way he likes

The way they were last time he was here

He is selfish with his time

As all rulers are

While I wish to bask in his glory

The return to reign

I feel it is time to defect

Truly and permanently

My currency for the kingdom

Blackens my lungs

A vessel for tobacco