(a)spire

I sit cross-legged in the corner of the room, on a hand-woven yoga rug, lotus emblazoned in brilliant blue against the ochred finish, the rough cotton fibers scratching lazily against the skin of my exposed calves. 

“Close your eyes,”

the teacher says quietly, and with the gentle command I sink into the cupboards of my mind, swimming in a swirling madness of thought and frenetic movement from want to hope to breath. 

Breath,

the anchor that I return to in this overwhelming white noise. 

“Breathe”,

he says, and I slowly allow my lungs to expand, listening to the scratch of my inhale against my throat. 

My belly grows, my ribs spread apart, and my chest rises with a devious plan to consume the entirety of essence, the universal mother. 

I inch into the dark expanse within, sinking into the muck of my own making with a cellular crawl riding upon the gentle movement of air, the molecular exchange of aspiration from expiration, giving light by the spoonful, by the breathful, an end with a beginning.

I am tranquility in motion.

I am the calm within the storm.

temporary living

pays her rent by the week

works by the hour

lives in the moment

but somewhere she knows

there’s no such thing as

no consequences

blue blood

It’s winter.

The cold has seeped into her bones,

her internal organs.

Sometimes, when she attempts to

siphon a hint of warmth from a

spot of coffee or black tea,

she remembers the icicles that cut at her

stabbed deep,

and caused the light in her lips to sink

into the depths.

words misspoken,

actions vile

from

the sniveling coward

the noisy narcissist

the bitter court jester

the coin-operated boy

The wounds closed,

invisible in daylight,

but beneath the surface a dull blue flame

persists, covered in the sooted remnants

of jagged scars haphazardly healed.

It is still uncertain whether the cells will regenerate,

once again glow, warm, pink with life.

For now, the hazy grey bitter breezes in, lingers,

threatening at any moment to spread,

like a cancer.

new year, same story

His knees
press against the cold
cobblestones of carelessness as his eyes watch the shoes of passersby parade on
in a blind and straightforward manner.
A coin or two is all he asks silently,
a mute plea.  
But there are none to spare,
for all are destined for restaurices
and the bottom of countless empty litres of Pilsner.
The glutton must be sated,
for the Samaritan is asleep in his armchair, feet by the fire,  snoring on
in champagne infused ignorance.

no more, Mr Jones

I sit here counting crows
scavenging through the grass
outside my window, but every one
reminds me of you.
Their feathers are oiled and dark,
so they might look sleek.  
They spread and ruffle with
extraneous pride,
eager to look larger than the
limits of their form.
The incessant call of their caws
seek to keep me from
forgetting their existence.  
Glorious in the certitude
of their superiority,
they cry on,
and i keep watching,
desperate to see mere birds.