night swimmer

I am not a snowflake
nor a goddess
nor something between.
I am…
inordinate,
incommensurate
on that scale.

I am…
a swimmer in the darkness
not drowning (yet)
not waving (ever)
just swimming,
further and further into the darkness,
trailing phosphorescence from my fingertips,
like eddies of starlight,
uncertain
as yet
of whether to turn back for shore
or keep swimming.

Inspired by David and Rob.
And I’m intending incommensurate and inordinate here to be read in the old/mathematical sense of disorganised, not fitting properly into an array.

in the company of women

We slip from the buildings in ones and twos,
heels clicking across the carpark,
or stepping more quietly in flats.
Slipping away – not quite clandestinely,
but nonetheless with a sense of escape.

a handful of herstory

This is an expanded and edited version of Bee sting, for the dVerse prompt “The body & Poetry“.

I have since given away my beehive, so no revisits after this. 

My hand swells as the venom spreads,
until it is smooth and puffed;
an inflated glove
or a giant toddler’s hand.

step off or step back?

Step back or step off?
Every edge presents a choice.

Perhaps that is why
edges are so compelling –
each is a temptation.

in-flight entertainment

For dVerse’s MTB Opening lines…beginnings prompt:

 

I didn’t think to fold my shadow
and place it in the overhead compartment,
or under the seat in front.
It should have been mentioned
in the pre-flight warnings.

go stand in the corner Vanessa

This is a response to The sound of one hand typing’s “go stand in the corner” prompt:

Times are hard in quarantine,
harder than I’ve ever seen –
the vegan food’s not vegan enough,
and washing my own hair!? That’s rough!

mirrors of the soul II

From an angle
I saw,

mirrors of the soul I

Don’t gaze into my eyes to look for my soul –
eyes are windows for the soul to look out
from the darkness behind.

From the outside,
they are only curved one-way mirrors,
reflecting back your own reduced and distorted image.

bee sting

My currently hideously swollen ankle (see attempted matricide) reminded me of the last time I was stung by a bee, and decided that I really needed to get rid of my hive. This is an abridged version of the poem I wrote at the time:

My hand slowly swells
as the venom spreads,
until, stretched smooth,
all the wrinkles disappear
and all the tiny hidden scars
stand out clear –
my history, written on my hands.

leadership training VI

The last leadership training session was this week, so here’s the (w)rap-up to the series (sing along with me):

I don’t need your SCARF
wrapped around my neck.