Question – A Haiku

You are confusion.

A beautiful question mark.

A difficulty.

Check – A Haiku

You simply check up

And my heart skips a little.

The simple things; You.

Path – A Haiku

Two streets in my mind.

Sickness and heat in my chest.

Confusion. Conflict.

Tempt – A Haiku

You are temptation,

Touchable, untouchable.

Sweet; Bitter. Wanted.

Cast It Out – A Haiku

Point a finger, then.

Find no black marks on your name.

Blame is best cast out.

When Your Words Are Your Own – Creative Practice During Censored Sensibility

We are all born to silence. Conceived with gentle moans of passion and brought into the world with the screams of the final push. But we are all born to silence. We do not own the words to say ‘thank you, ‘hello’, ‘nice to meet you’. We have to learn the words, we have to earn the words. We are born without our own voice. Someone decides which cry is one of hunger, one of sadness, one of pain. Our voice is their voice. Or their voice is ours. We are born fresh, new, a whole life on the horizon but we are more like the ineloquent grunting caveman than the fluent speaking spokesman. A series of sounds meaning nothing more than ‘be me for now, the best you know how, move my hands and speak my mind until I find what I must find’ – be me.

We grow and grow and know and know and show and show just who we are or so we think. We are moulded every day. We are changing every day. We begin to learn the words that express just who we are, or who we want to be. But we are moulded still, for better or for worse. The silence is falling away and this word is your and that word is yours, but your dictionary is not complete yet, your thesaurus is not filled with every meaning and every feeling, it is not filled up to the ceiling so you are ready to shout any words with confidence that they are yours. But you will.

I often wonder how people expressed sadness when they lost a family member or when that darkest day comes round again year after year before Facebook and Twitter gave you that voice you’d been yearning for since you were born to silence. Did people tie notes, ‘I miss you mum’ to birds and set them free or roll parchment into a bottle and send it out to sea? Did everyone remember, did everyone read? Did no one care? At least all of our two thousand five hundred Facebook friends can honestly say they care about us, can say they paid attention to our status – thanks for the ‘like’, it really helped. At least all four hundred followers stopped reading Piers Morgan’s tweets and favourited our ‘See you there Dad’, it was like a hug through my laptop. But seriously, how did people express their sadness before someone said ‘here, takes these pixels, tell the world’. I wonder. I guess people prayed, prayed for days, for days to last, for days that have passed, prayed for days and days and days. And who do they pray to? To that person in their dreams with a thousand ears, a thousand hands, a mind in a thousand lands. Or to those people on their screens with a thousand peers, a thousand hands, thousands of minds in thousands of lands. Perhaps God and Facebook aren’t so different; so absent and so present with a careful balance of followers. After all, it’s only pixels and prayers that divide them.

One day we will all be old enough, wise enough, brave enough, to own our own words, our own voices. They might have mortgages, we might have to pay taxes on them, but they will be ours and yours and mine and theirs and they will be worth every penny for your thoughts. And one day, when it is your turn to leave someone behind to pray, to tweet away their feelings, you will have written your own eulogy, you will have written the markings on your grave – you will have written yourself; the best you can hope for is to have lived without quotation marks around your name. You will be your own. Your words will will be your own.

When you have escaped your birth of silence. When you are older. And wiser.

And you

Kiss Me – A Haiku

Kiss me like always.

Kiss me like never before.

Just kiss me; please, love.

The Knife – A Haiku

Intense cold pressure,

Wonderful; into my back

Your knife, then, dear friend.

Sex – (from Censored Sensibility 7 Day Poetry Challenge)

I feel your body before I touch it,

I taste you before I open my mouth,

I see your body before I open my eyes.

Even in the dark

there is a light

like nothing else;

Bright.

A kiss, a hand on the back of your neck, a soft touch; a breath.

The feel of your skin.

Even in the heat

the air

feels just right

Cool.

A wondering tongue, a hand reaching down to your waist, a strong hold; a shiver.

The sound of your voice.

Even in nervousness

there is a confidence

you didn’t know existed.

Powerful.

A bite, a hand feeling a heartbeat, a force that doesn’t scare; a moan.

The feel of your body

The taste of your skin

The sight of your face

I can feel it.

A breathe, a push, a quiver.

Collide.

Collapse.

Co-exist.

A breath.

Two Left Feet and Little Diamonds

I was born with two left feet, and have continued to walk in circles ever since.

I was born with a lazy eye which has left me seeing things only half as clearly as I should.

I was born with an arch in my back which keeps my head below the tops of the crowds.

I was born with hair that seems to grey much faster than I’d like to think my age is turning.

I was born with a cramp in my fingers which leaves me holding too tight sometimes and unable to open my hands in others.

I was born with the faintest of coughs which only worsens when cobwebs are dusted from old ideas and older memories.

I was born with sharp little flaws which catch light like diamonds.

I was born with two left feet.

I am broken;

and that’s OK.

‘Have a Nice Day’

From Censored Sensibility, chalked in a walkway and titled ‘Degradation’, the piece considered the loss, degrading and weakening of language, wondering whether a presentation of artistic effort and positive message would affect how people responded to, treated and understood language.

Darkness – A Haiku

Let us walk in dark,

For your eyes are light enough,

To lead my way home.

To Your Grandchild

I haven’t met you yet,

but you have your mother’s eyes.

I remember when my love would pull faces just like that.

Be sure to take every opportunity you can – you kids don’t know how lucky you are.

You would laugh, but I had a cardigan much like your one.

Ask questions; I will always be there to answer them. Even when i am no longer here.

Hold hands with everyone who walks into your life.

Know that i will always be proud of you.

Your handwriting is just like mine,

and you have your mother’s eyes.

Write notes to your grandchild before they are born, and every day from then on.

We know nothing of each other,

but my love would pull faces just like that.

I will always be there. Even when i am no longer here.

I haven’t met you yet;

yet we know everything of each other,

and you have your mother’s eyes.

Perfect and Ironic

Perspective – Take Care Be Kind

An installation from a project functioning as a conceptual exploration of language, known as ‘Censored Sensibility’. Perspective provides a visual representation of the importance of context and positioning within the use and understanding of language. Part of getting across ‘the genuine power of words’.

I want to get a…

I want to get across the genuine power of words

A dear friend, with the quote that started it all.