happy others day

this wasn't meant to be about yesterday,
about how mother’s day digs deeper
every year i still don’t have kids.

lonely stabs literal behind my sternum
makes breathing suddenly impossible.
no matter how much i fake cough
i can’t dam eye wells, or silence sniffles.

i excuse myself from rooms, slump
back to back with bathroom doors.
sneak sobs, wait in front of mirrors
until eyes don’t look so red.

back out, re-busy myself with keeping
surfaces calm despite the turbulent
brewing of some soul-tempest.

yes, everything in its own time, sure.
but i’m allowed to be weary of
ticking days with tearfilled pillows,
or these haunting bone-aches
of old, old dreams.

filmnoise grey

weather is still
filmnoise grey
pre and post rain.

half-reclined in
a breaking
ikea office chair

this minute
is liplicked
with fingers
nitpicking keys

trying to catch
poem edges.

waiting for a
story idea
to land in my lap

like a stack of
junkmail or these
earbuds that keep

falling out.

sixth of may

raingrey day,
until every pore
breathes petrichor.

already anxious
for a late summer lay
on hot cement…

drops hissing
as they hit, steam
back into vapor
so sunset shimmers

between black asphalt
and thunderheads,
reflects off mountainsides.

when i am soaked
to and through
my very skin,

and thunder echoes
from ears to toes
so my soul roars back

until grass grows chill,
until stars breakout
between blowaway clouds.

april, afterwords

spring settles,
this air blooms with
blossom-scent.

trees & wind full
of petals, of pollen.
all my doors
& windows open.

a wellspring
from toes & nose
meets somewhere
in the middle, my
self is full,
is overflowing.

imagination and humour