The Messenger

Ghosts appear everywhere—
abandoned cemeteries with worn-out names,
haunting the house on the corner of the street,
hospitals lingering with their cries.

One woman comes to me in the night
with her cob-webbed body and face made of dust,
like an aged ornament finally taken out
from behind a glass cabinet,
and she sits on the edge of my bed,
her bones creaking and skin cracking,
mouth stretching into a slice of skeleton teeth.

Please, she says, tell her I love her.

Her memories are cold and grey,
invading my mind like the wallowing of her soul,
and I see blank faces and hear static words,
losing grasp on the reality she once lived,
showing me only the hints of presence—
rain-damp fingers, stained smiles, clinging touches.

She leaves with a trail of bare footprints,
dissolving into ashes like the end of a fire,
once burning, once lighting the way,
and I sit in the suffocating darkness,
echoing her words over and over,
as though they are my own.

A random poem that has been sitting in a file for some time.


Who Am I

Who am –
I am me,
the late-night thinker, who
reads thirty books
a year, and listens to the wind as
it howls along the walls.

And, yes, I like the way he holds
my hand, and I like the way she
smiles at me. It is not the only
thing that defines me. See the
freckles smattered over my nose
and that my eyes are blue;
This is who I am –

It isn’t much to ask of you,
who I will always be,
that you look at me, see me, today,
the same way you did before,
and that don’t you dare
look anywhere else.

Your Way

Be the one who does things your way;
gazing at the open spaces between blossom trees,
soaking in the sun of a cloudless winter day,
and watches rainfall for over two hours—

speaks about why you loved a recent read,
or paint a not-so-good picture that you still hang,
walk through museums until the night,
and take photos of everything and anything—

parties until the early morning,
travels the world from Cornwall to New York,
or stays inside for a day or more,
but most of all enjoys every moment of it.

Be the one who does things your way,

or perhaps be the one who doesn’t;

it’s still a way.