Author: Claire

Winterise

 

frigidaire air

cold on bottle-green arms

inhale exhale, snuffle-gulp

chill shots, no covid

don’t touch

turquoise face

stretch

alabaster calves

yellowhite, marbled

tight, neat, chocked, clocked

surprised but not shocked

ready to run

here it comes

breath like a vape

grey morning takes

extra

moments

to

arrive

pinkorange imperial glory

of clouds over

water as

ghosts glide

majestic

winter sunrise

 

Photo: Claire Doble

Skytumble

skytumble

and the breeze

tosses me

around

batters my

spiked edges

smooths

the turmoil

of the soul

I watch the

lines of cloud

chased to the corners

of blue

funnelled towards

a far edge, reaching

white, high and fleeting

and below

and beyond

waves rise

out at sea

alarmingly like

the dream

I had

last night

of a tsunami

greygreen

they’ll reach my windows

engulf the house

tight-sealed but

ominous

a trickle

down the wall

all-engulfing

enthrals

colours in a

tropical storm

aquamarine

slides sideways

more like

quiet horror

than fright

 

Photo: Claire Doble

liminal

shifting focus to the place inbetween

the becoming

once again moments beyond

an ending

strip back layers and dwell

heart rending

focus on peace of the liminal’s

teaching

be quiet and unobsessed, wait for

a new thing

it will come, it will come, be ready to

take it in

pre-flight groundwork before

embarking

it is ok to not know where, how

or when

space cleared, a gap for

the beginning

Darksparkle

Dive deep, dark sparkle

serrated frilled

never fulfilled

that feeling

escapes

when I

tin-can my mind

cut-through is zero

once again

waiting

in the wings

afraid to fall

or execute

a lame pirouette

gavotte, garotte

ambition on the cross

of hope

frowned brow

while others float

like eagles so

easy

if I could just gather those

gossamer strings

add kohl to rims

electro-beat heart

ever elusive

a fat black moth

rectangular, irregular

air-float of a burnt thing

swooping black kite

hides

in plain sight

like beauty marks

or scars

scratches, catches, caked in corners

of eyes

the soul

on a Tuesday

oh, where have you been

underground queen

dancing away

to industrial tapes

and screaming blue Jezebel

while anyone can see

she’s a skinny succubus

or merely

a sketch of one

who wished she was

 

Soundcloud recording: https://soundcloud.com/clairevetica/darksparkle

 

Photo: Eliška Motisová on Unsplash

The Water Tower

The water tower

perched high on the rise

floating world

of childhood holidays

muesli, orange juice

perfect vegemite toast in Penshurst

searching for

unfear

raw

remember

that girl was

always anxious in a way

now wonder if

my addict’s real

or just someone who

found self-harm easy

and crammed defeat

into flamboyance

a proud sham

now soiled

bored

with final flounces

doused in

sanitiser

nostrils flare

that witch wakes up

occurs to me

it’s moments of practicality

when it could be love

instead of flames

a soft patina

murrs pebble heart

like moss

or not

gosh am I lucky

to be so low

the one

who sees

how it goes

stupid mind that tracks and twists

yearning for

the years

of concrete towers

and hours

of unshed tears

 

Soundcloud recording: https://soundcloud.com/clairevetica/the-water-tower

Photo: Mihai Lazăr on Unsplash

sober

child crawls into my bed

at 1am

don’t know why

bad dream?

lie there

with that tiny flame

of joy

thinking how before

I’d have been…

now I’m sane

next morning

wake early

and run

through the rain

endless liquid

absorbed easily

in sand

no glass of wine

competes with wild

wind and waves

drink the moment

shake my head

at empty beer bottles

that roll and smash

on picnic tables

the drunk won’t see

beauty here

in this moment

just for me

 

Photo: Claire Doble

Dear You

 

Dear

 

about to start my second draft

and I need to talk to you

it’s uncharted territory

big stuff

expectations. hopes. ideas

we must discuss

what others have said, articles read

I’m scared

but weirdly prepared. Like, I can do this.

can I do this?

where are you?

think I might know

while having no fucking clue

about

something you never got to do

can that be right

feels untrue

selfish, me. Just wish you were here-

and I’m still listening to Taylor Swift. I know

it’s sad

… you preferred me as a goth boy

maybe I did too

never got to send the lyrics I speared

and I’ve been meaning to tell you

how I volunteered?

parts of my life

already different and remade

paths being erased, fazed

and where are you anyway?

I ran today

pulled out my phone

to send a g’day

you’re not there

who would check

we really need to chat

It’s just not fair

you went away

and

how is it

that I stay

 

Photo: Claire Doble

Haven’t asked

 

tucked in to benches

in the park

possessions in plastic

old toys look tragic

and

I pass by masked

thinking

he doesn’t know what I think

hasn’t asked

isn’t that always the way

we look to our own

take the payload

build an ark

navigate with mirrors

sail in a trance

dance, alone

but if my weight

cuts a wake

like he says

I see

virtually

no mark

then again

haven’t asked

 

Recording on Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/clairevetica/havent-asked

 

Photo by Kirstin Heckmann on Unsplash

The Wreck

A wreck of gold and crimson

over the horizon

an island out to sea

not far

frothed in waves and it’s

windy out there

back home the damp seeps

into everything

carpet, eiderdown, towel and bone

while the daughters rev and roar

next door

smoke blooms in the night

once more

peachlight clouds against grey-to-black sky

nostrils flare

all is so quiet but that smell of fire

over the horizon

there

it’s

a wreck of gold and crimson

beyond the shore

Photo: https://unsplash.com/@wtexxfaa1

Somewhat inspired by https://poets.org/poem/diving-wreck

Nightbird

 

a nightbird calls outside my window

I am sick, so sick in the dark

it’s 4.24 on the morning of your funeral

life makes no sense, there is only love

 

you talk to everyone at the party

buy them gifts, exchange views

share laughs, drinks, stories

my only conversation is with you

 

grab my phone to check messages

that remain forever unread

missed your call, I miss you: indelible

a nightbird’s sick joke you’re dead

 

Photo: Sierra Narvaeth on Unsplash