Once upon a time, Rumple
Stein sat by the glowing fire
and called the children close.
"Tonight," he whispered with
a wicked smile, "I will tell you
about the Dust- Gnasher."
This creature has skin like old
parchment and razor- sharp fingers
long enough to wrap around the
mattress.
It waits in absolute silence,
completely flattered beneath
your dark bed frame all night
long.
The moment the bedroom
lights click off, its yellow eyes
pop open in the shadows.
It listens for the sound of
deep breathing to know you
are finally fast asleep.
Then, it slowly slides out to
sniff the air, looking for tiny
bare feet hanging off the edge.
If you leave a toe uncovered,
it's cold, bristly tongue will
give it a tiny bite.
It loves to steal loose socks
and chew on plastic toys with
its full, clicking teeth.
"So tuck your blankets tightly
tonight," Rumple chuckled,
"because it is listening right
now."
"I love your art"
scrawled onto the back
of a mud streaked maths book,
held up to the Driver's window.
It took about 30 seconds; maybe less,
just four words and a crooked heart
in exchange for one of the sincerest smiles,
the kind that makes you believe
that the world is going to be okay.
Such a small spark
and yet see how it lingered
in the chubby cheeks that flushed red
and the bristly silver hair,
how it glowed in the quiet of rushing footsteps,
like scented candles cupped up
beside your face in the cold.
So let this remind you
to be someone else's firework.
Burst bright in their dark,
scatter colour through their doubt
because sometimes
one shimmer in the night
is all a soul needs
to keep walking till dawn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mad Marge, a squirrel with a daring soul,
at the wheel, she always lost control.
Through the car wash, she did dash,
in her tiny, souped-up green Nash.
It's March! she cried with glee,
It’s top-down weather; I’m wild and free!
Huge bristly brushes whirled for all to see.
Oh, the foam and jets! My car looks like a Humvee!
Marge emerged clean, her fur a shining sight,
her green Nash, a dazzling delight.
She sped away, her fur nothing but a blur,
March madness, fur sure, fur sure!
Look! Can you see? Out of the window?
Snowflakes are falling, white blankets are forming.
Patience, little one,
Soon it will be quilted and quiet.
Not far away, three small mammals are doing their sleeping:
The dormouse, pipistrel and the solitary hedgehog -
Mystical prickled pig of the hedgerow.
Ssh, she's away with the fairies.
Snug in her nest, may her slumbers be blessed.
One in a million,
She's a spherical urchin
Curled tight on a cushion of twigs.
Hedgehog is dreaming, snuffling,
To chobble on tanklements of millipede and earwig.
No, no, no!
No mediaeval harbinger of doom -
She's a bristly broom,
Self-anointed by toad skin and poo,
She brushes in spring anew.
And in the half-lit, moonlit summers,
Her little donnies will write spells -
Not ‘ills’, with her quills,
As trails of silvered cursive script
In the glistening ink of snails -
Near nanny’s pots and pails on the patio.
Later, little one,
Her thorny needles will stitch cobwebs of autumn
Between the railings on the hill,
Knitting together a tapestry of seasons.
Shapeshifting.
Bewitching.
Still. Affects Me.
Just like paint under paint, under boarded up doors.
The leeching doesn’t stop.
When I was young, the paint was already crusting over.
It was done already, no one understood.
I know it does.
Affect Me.
I don’t really know the extent of it.
Like water damage.
Or hurting damage.
It’s just my mind which causes new creases in my actions.
The greasy, bristly Me.
It was done.
I turned 21 and the boarded up doors started creaking.
All the bad things in me that didn’t yet make sense.
It’s all about a diagnosis.
It was just me growing up.
In the quietness which no one tried to understand.
Then they painted over that again.
Splashed paint around ineffectively.
It should make sense!
What Still Affects Me?!?
They say I’m as cured as I’ll ever be.
The diagnosis…
Leeches through.
Is as thorough as…
Paint splattered ineffectively.
Which somehow Still Affects Me.
Rain follows the fading winter's breath
In the tangled field,
where bristly ryegrass sways
Emerging green, the blades do rise
glimmer in the verdant hue of shamrock
like the lively notes of the cuckoo's call
Whispers dance upon the undulating meadows
The fragrance of the soil—
its charm, a whisper of rain-kissed ground
Silver whispers of yearning
Softly sung, a memory lingers still.
Sure-footed on rugged hill
Likes life on mountain range
Rolling grassland fits the bill
Short horns reveal their age
Ovines in endangered stage
Males change from Brown, grey to black
Deft climbers blend with rock
Bristly manes, white saddleback
Female has agile walk
Dusky females never baulk
Feeds on various grass, leaves
Spots danger to snort, run
Predators - tigers, dholes, wolves
Humans poach, shoot for fun
Human deeds have their life done
We all start out like seedlings
Just emerging from the earth,
Alike in that we’re each of us
A product of a birth.
Depending on our genus,
We may grow up tall and straight
Or be scraggly or bristly,
Rooted down by luck or fate.
We’ll be nurtured and be nourished
Or be totally ignored,
Grow in gardens gently tended
Or be trampled and abhorred.
Some of us will sport some flowers
To embellish and adorn,
While for others there’s deception
Waiting in a hidden thorn.
Though there’s sun and rain and shelter,
Nature doesn’t really care
If each seedling has an equal shot,
For life just isn’t fair.
Circling and scraping.
Bristly and comforting.
When I brush my teeth.
It’s never that bad.
But getting out of bed is the hard part.
I find myself wishing someone would bring me my toothbrush.
I could brush my teeth in my sleep.
Instead, I’m lonely.
I’m late so I spring out of bed, suddenly.
Circling the room, anxiously.
The carpet scraping my feet.
Fearful that my toothbrush will somehow hurt me.
I have to leave soon.
I don’t have time to brush, so I cry instead.
I daydream all day,
About going home to brush my teeth over and over…
Alone, brushing my teeth.
Until everything is clean and fresh.
But when I get home, it’s never like that.
I’m tired so I brush my teeth meekly and hopelessly.
Circling and scraping.
Bristly and comforting.
I don’t really brush my teeth enough these days.
He thinks he killed me.
So he rolled me up in a rug.
I thought I died too but then I wiggled my toes.
Rugs are bristly and hot, so I felt that too.
When I try to unfurl, I just get wrapped tighter.
Until I relax and fall asleep.
I always wake up from that nightmare,
But I’m lying on the floor from passing out.
They are worried but it’s just a dream, I say.
I’m tired, so I close my eyes again.
To get a little more sleep.
Charlotte
You were smiling at me
As you were looking right
Through him
Or were you
Looking right through me
As you were smiling at him?
False subtleties
From dew to dust
From dawn to dusk
All the things that you have to weave
I’m sure didn’t mean to deceive
Well I never really had a doubt
After all the things I found out
I can’t get out
Charlotte
Too caught up in the web you wove
In the lies you told
Head first for you I really dove
The web you spun
Right here where it all began
As I sing along
The cricket’s song
Just as I realized
Summertime can’t last forever
AsI hang onto something
a little tighter
I wondered if I
Should hold on to nothing
A little bit longer?
Your hourglass body
The bristly patch I crave
Too many things on my mind
So many past better left behind
That also told my woes to you
That is all I can do
No one can ever take your place
In my heart
Blood thirsty
Looking pretty
That’s all you do
Charlotte
I’d still like to believe
That you really
Didn't mean to deceive.
Witches are wizened hags
With long nose and loose hair
Wart nosed ugly spirits
Wicked ramblers of night
Who ride on bristly brooms
Wielders of black magic
Weird sisters in Macbeth
Crux is a craggy, seasoned, sunbaked fisherman from Missouri.
Never one to speed up a story, and never in any kind of hurry.
He has no grandchildren of his own, but likes my daughter Grace.
Grace is three, and loves to run her hands over bristly whiskers on his face.
I never saw this side of him before, my mother said to me, but I had.
Don’t you remember when he used to come and visit with my Dad?
They would stay up all night laughing about wild tales of the sea.
And who was feeling his bristly whiskers? That little lad was me.
You are a rose, with prickly words and thorny ways.
Your life is hardy like a mum and a bit dull like one too.
My cousin is an orchid, delicate and bristly, brittle.
One strong wind could end her.
My twin is a sunflower, bright yellow with a friendly face
Greeting everyone with positivity and warmth.
I am a hydrangea, ready to change color,
Angrily waiting for the right plant food again.
down the road
past the slips
and fallen power lines
a massive macrocarpa pine tree
90 feet of sprawling bristly dark green
all wild spiky branches and cones
squat and ugly rough barked trunk
150 years old
cracked completely in half
suspended
and hanging arched over the road
a shocking reminder of the last three days of cyclone Gabrielle
torrential rain and screaming wind
relentless noise and fear
shuddering, I think ...should I drive under it?
it's the only road out
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