NaPoWriMo 2016: Day 26

I keep coming back to this line

I am the cold costs of home

Though lately I have been feeling more river than ocean

Herded by busy people

With important walks

And brown shoes

Or maybe I’m more of a cave

Years ago

Smarter, more adventurous creatures lived inside my shell

And they painted their stories on my walls

And now I just recite

These mammoths and hunting hands

Over and over

And yet…

I am the cold costs of home

A beach in winter

Deep in the grey of it all

The sea, the land, the mist

Coat collar turned up

Hands in pockets


There is still beauty to be found in nothing.


NaPoWriMo 2016: Day 22


When you look back on all the wasted time

Try not to look at it as wasted

Try to see it how i see it

It’s just time.

When you finally get around to putting your life in order

Stacking the shelves of your insides

With books and green things

And adulthood

And calendars

Leave a shelf empty

I’ll be waiting with the comic books

And the reasons why you still write poetry.

NaPoWriMo 2016: Day 21

Did you know there are people out there who can see without seeing?

They’re like human bats or dolphins or something.

They do these weird clicking noises and then

They listen for the sound they get back

To tell them what the world looks like

Kind of like Daredevil

Except without all that red leather.

Kind of reminds me a bit of poets

They get out on a stage

Make funny noises

And listen for the sound they get back

To tell them what the world looks like.

The Carpenter

The carpenter works from dawn until dusk

Rising with the golden light,

he carves until the air is cedar, mahogany, Brazilian walnut and pine

Each breathe is thick with the smell of resin

The carpenter uses these tiny specs of magic to reflect light all around him

At the centre of his workshop he keeps a birdcage

The carpenter has a pet sparrow

At night he lets the sparrow out to dance with its lover the moon

When it returns, the sparrow always brings a golden marble sun

The carpenter has 13 jars of golden marbles

He drinks amber whisky mixed with the sawdust magic specs of air

By now the carpenter is part tree

His roots go as deep as his leather work boots

He gets his energy from the morning chill

He lives near a forest

Before going to sleep he looks out of his window and recites prayers to the trees

He has named each one of them after a different family member, friend and God, he is waiting to put his faith in the last one standing

On a good day the carpenter takes walks through the tree trunk cathedral that has assembled itself around his home

This monk of wood and bone, this tree-man, he feels like the tallest hill

2 inches away from being a mountain

But the carpenter knows his soul is still growing.

These are the good days,

When he can work to the music of birds, carving living things from the dead

Like a fisherman he pulls his labour out of the ocean of dust

Breathes into it the breathe of life given to craftsmen

and sets it on a table like a new born baby

At night he thanks every tree for his calloused hands.

The carpenter wonders if they can hear him


We all wanted to be the carpenter

All wanted to pull life out of the dead things every morning

So we went searching

We poets and writers

we went searching for a voice sharp enough to cut through all thought

And on the good days we pulled from a dictionary of diction the perfect expressions of our innermost souls

On the good days we didn’t wait for our gods to fall we simply walked with them

Accepting their existence rather than cutting them down

Those were the good days and the best days when we could lift our prayers up like open hands to a father

But we all had our bad days

The days when open hands became clenched fists shaking in defiance

I want to hear you father

The days we turned our eloquence into hatchets and knives so we could cut down, cut out the roots of our faith

I want to hear you father

The days when we tore apart every word because it was getting hard to breathe with all the deforestation

Can you hear me father?

And sometimes our gods answered

And sometimes they spoke in the silence

We monks of ink and bone shards waiting to explode

Sometimes the silence was the only thing we could comprehend

We soldiers of the spoken word

Aimed our questions like rifles

Spoke our magazines empty

Punctuated our bullets into God’s chest

Because we knew he could take it

And when the wars were done

We raised our cracked lips up to every bullet hole

Kissed them healed

Wrote our words like bandages

For every injury we had a simile to rebuild it again

We were carpenters of our image of God

Stripping back everything until we were left with his face

We are still carving.

Salt Water

The pen will not move.

It sits nestled,


I try to move it,

Make words,

But none spring to the page.

And all is quiet.


How can you describe the ocean with only a biro’s worth of ink?

How could I tell you everything?

The thought moves like the tides,

Back and forth,

Day and night,

And how it makes me long for the shore,

The cooling sand,

A million grains of mountain and hard places,

The sea wipes them up and down.


And the rustling of the waves is a pleasant music.


On nights such as this

How could anyone say everything about the sunset on the ocean?

Beauty when it is true cannot be embellished with description,

And like the sea,

You are beautiful.



All disarmingly beautiful.

Like the sea you have dark,

you have storms,

No one, not even you, can hide that,

But there is always light.

There is always hope.

And I see it all in you.


And with these thoughts

I make the pen move,

Hoping you might one day hear it.


And the rustling of the paper is a pleasant music.