These times of danger settle within.
On your eyelids and under your skin.
These creatures dwell out in plain sight.
They do not only pierce the night.
While people sleep and dream such dreams.
Dancing devils grow black and mean.
And they toil and think, and plot most secret.
To enter your soul, corrode; then keep it.
The ogres lick you with loving words.
That churn in your brain like diving birds.
That peck and splinter all hope and trust.
And spit on dreams until the rust.
But these monsters don’t hide under your bed.
These horrors are the ones that reside in your head.
BRUISES FADE TO RAINBOWS
She wouldn’t talk about the pain she was in.
The hurt that dwelt beneath her skin.
She didn’t cry, or even murmur.
As he made her flesh, that little bit firmer.
With each punch that found its destination.
A martial disturbance of accustomed agitation.
Bruises showed he really cared.
As he threw her skeleton down the stairs.
The neighbours tuned a blind yet curious eye.
To her haloed face and bloodied thigh.
No-one asked if she needed help.
A shoulder to cry on, or how she felt;
being married to a violent creature.
Who tortured her mind as well as each feature.
She couldn’t escape, or at least she thought.
Which is why she stayed, and perhaps why they fought.
Until one day, when she hit back.
Her own rebellion, when her mind did crack.
She took off her clothes and burnt them there.
Along with his flesh, his eyes and hair.
And painted herself with the most brilliant shades,
to hide the bruises which had yet to fade.
She then went out into the street.
Head held high, no shoes on her feet.
As her house and his corpse burned to an orange glow.
She was now her own liberated rainbow.
SHE DWELT ON THE MOON
She lived up there, where nowhere went.
A sparkled silent sky just for her.
And her dreams and diamonds, all well spent.
As she walked through this world in a blur.
For it was on the moon her soul resided.
In lunar craters she crept and hided.
Watching the world from the safely of space.
Removed and distant, from the maddening human race.
She lived her life in seclusion.
Away from the world beyond.
Lost in a forestry delusion.
In a time that’s long since gone.
With a wounded heart and stolen child.
She fed and ran with her kind.
Hunted for her meat so mild.
Life and death so intertwined.
Despite it all, she raised her young.
On her own and with no other.
Help from a male, and though it stung.
She did her best to be a good mother.
A quiet creature, rarely seen.
Yet magical to the eye.
Fur so soft, and eyes of green.
T’was a shame she had to die.
On that snowy day, when the men with guns.
Were hunting, and being hunted.
And other beast were forced to run.
Two worlds collide, and then were shunted.
For a wolf you see is not so aware.
Or prone to live in fear.
And this is why, she fell and died.
Trampled to death by the startled deer.
She never needed a woman or man.
To give her what she needed.
For Elspeth had another plan.
To pass through this world unheeded.
She studied hard and read the books.
And conjured in her sleep.
She boiled and troubled and baked and cooked.
In magic and power from the deep.
But she didn’t turn black, or any other colour.
That her witchy ways suggested.
In fact she became the perfect mother.
To earthen ways she vested.
Her time and love and all her thoughts.
To breathe life into that dying world.
The green and blue was what she sought.
The leaf of life she wished to un-furl
But not having and man or even a wife,
was wrong in the eyes of society.
And though she led an ideal life.
She left others with unease and anxiety.
For she didn’t fit into that mould,
that others could deem right and proper.
And her ways and airs were ever so bold.
So they conjured up their own to stop her.
They took their chance on a February day,
And stole her away in great pain.
Then into a court, before she could have any say.
Poor Elspeth was certified insane.
You cannot tell me why it aches.
Why it crumbles.
Why it breaks.
All you cough in your dying throes.
Is that when trust dies.
Love cannot grow.
Into the shuttle, with a clink and clank.
Climbed old Richard, the adventurous Yank.
He counted down, from ten to zero.
Puffed out his chest, as America’s new hero.
And he soared into the sky, with his hands in his pockets.
As he shot to the moon on the back of a rocket.
And the earth dripped away under the clouds and his feet.
He smiled at his fortune that was ever so sweet.
Yet alone on this flight, bound for the lunar oasis.
As his body hung on earth in a medical stasis.
In the nursing home called Cherry palm, Richard resided.
At 92, was the best place his children decided;
For him to live out his days in comfort and care.
Little knowing each day was full of lonely despair.
And that is why, though medicated it’s noted.
He navigated the world, and now space where he floated.
And he went where he wanted, on his own in his head.
He had travelled to the moon without leaving his bed.
He was buried on the Tuesday morn.
While the rest of the world slept.
Into the ground, like being unborn.
Darkness around the coffin crept.
And they left John there, in that hole the ground.
After covering him up with earth.
In spirits they wished their sadness to drown.
So drank their sorrow away to mirth.
But after a while, inside the box.
Poor John had started to stir.
From the top of his head, down to his socks.
Some chaos was about to occur.
For John wasn’t dead, he’d only been sleeping.
When they’d thought the worse and put under.
And now the panic, inside him was creeping.
To get out of that terrible blunder.
But the panic was not down to being buried alive.
Or confined in that horrible space.
For John was nearly ninety five.
And it was heaven he knew was his place.
So he did what anyone would down there.
In the dark and no longer young.
He crossed his chest and uttered a prayer.
Closed his eyes and swallowed his tongue
In the dying light, and turning time.
When all around had slept.
She covered herself in turpentine.
And out the door she crept.
She made her way to the darkened wood.
Shivering in the snow.
And found the den, which outside she stood.
Waiting for the wolf to go.
Out to hunt and catch its prey.
To rip apart another creature.
And when saw the fur of grey.
She planned to add it another feature.
To its snarling mouth and matted fur.
Her knife she slid out from her pocket.
She pounced and ran in a hasty blur.
And plunged the blade into its socket.
The wolf snarled and snapped and howled in pain.
Pouring blood onto the woodland floor.
Yet struggle and fight were all in vein.
For to kill the beast earlier she had swore.
To do it that day, upon finding her child.
Taken last night while she slept.
The poor infant so small and ever so mild.
Eaten they’d said, so she’d wept.
And then formulated a plan, to go kill the beast.
While the others did little or fight.
And now it was done and the wolf was deceased.
She prayed to god and set herself alight.
Back then and when, and add some more.
Young Stacey Tyler was only four.
Though good at math, and loved to read.
It was baby dolls she sadly received.
All pretty in pink, with a matching dress.
That fit young Stacey, her parent’s princess.
Feed and change that plastic thing.
Clean up after it, no time to sing.
That was left for Sleeping beauty.
It’s Cinderella that’s your call of duty.
Be pretty, be quiet and wait to be saved.
Forget independence, or being so brave.
For that will be your stories’ end.
No adventures after, no lovers or friends.
Give your man a home and then a child.
With smiles for him, well-mannered and mild.
Subservient is the way to be.
Come now Stacey, copy me.
Her mother had cooed from before she could remember.
Trophied on a pedestal, her brain now a dying ember.
But Stacey, though four, knew better than this
And knew there were things that she didn’t want to miss.
She didn’t really care for babies or bottles.
It was Dr. Seus she craved, and even Aristotle.
To save her from her mother’s fate.
Of giving birth and gaining weight.
Stacey pledged that very day.
To speak up and out, and have her say.
Out with the pink and the notions of gender.
A determined mind, and a heart so tender.
And that is why, with thirty years spent.
Little Stacey is running to be president.
I confess what’s in my heart.
Then cough out a prayer, deep in the dark.
I aim it towards heaven, and smile in his eyes.
Yet all around me I notice, it’s me they despise.
Though I hold my head high.
A trick I learnt from youth.
Never let them see you cry, drown them with the truth.
So they kill me with words, and burn me in their fire.
Scared of a dream, haunted by desire.
So onto these knees to pray, flames lick me as I knelt.
And all that I can think, deep within my skull.
Is that now I know how Joan of Arc felt.
Oh sweet lord, I pray to thee.
Even when you abandoned me.
I prayed on through, and kept believing.
Knowing deep down, you were deceiving.
All of us, who ask for help.
On empty ears, our prayers are felt.
But unresolved and in desperation.
I pray once more for my salvation.
Down the garden, over the wall.
Quick like a cat, careful not to fall.
Into the dirt Toby dug.
His nails all black, his fingers snug.
With haste and intent the rocks were hurled.
Over his shoulder, out of this world.
He dug fast and deep, it had to be.
As wide as the ocean, as deep as the sea.
For into the bottom he placed his treasure.
And though he felt safe, he took no pleasure.
To fill in that hole, and cover for a lifetime.
This was a precaution, his own tiny lifeline.
For it wasn’t gold, or silver he hid.
It was something most precious he wanted protected.
For down in the ground by the worms was his heart.
Before it got stolen. Before it all fell apart.
In the night, she heard her crying.
A piercing scream, like someone dying.
She flew to the cot, and stole up the child.
Into her arms, like a wolf in the wild.
She rocked her forth, and then rocked her back.
To calm her down, a mother’s knack.
To soothe the tot, and know her needs.
Like when to rest, and when to feed.
A natural setting and lovely sight.
A mother and child, together at night.