The Sulking Kettle

It squats there,

a stubborn, chrome-bellied thing—

water pooled in its gut,

silent, sulking.

 

I press the switch,

red eye glaring back,

but the element hums with disdain,

no steam, no promise of warmth.

 

So I lean close,

murmur small consolations:

you are patient,

you are bright as the morning,

you will sing again.

 

At first, nothing.

Then a tremor,

the faintest sigh—

and suddenly a rising chatter,

bubbles shouldering upward:

a chorus of forgiven grievances.

 

And now I wonder

how many small appliances sulk,

waiting for words

I’ve never thought to give.

The Beauty of Slow

Terry the tortoise would sigh,
“I’m slow as the clouds drifting by.
The rabbits all race,
The swallows all chase,
While I only plod, step and try.”
 
But slowly he spotted the dew,
On webs spun in silver and blue.
The daisies that yearned,
The rainbows that burned,
The wonders the quick never knew.
 
So Terry walked on with a grin,
Content with the world he was in.
“For beauty,” said he,
“Was waiting for me—
And slow is the best way to win.”

Some Limericks

A poet set out to contrive,

A limerick lively, alive.

He started off neat,

With a clever light beat,

Then—oh, bother, he lost it.

 ——

A poet who rhymed out of sync,

Rewrote every verse with a drink.

By stanza thirteen,

His rhymes turned obscene—

Then he toppled face-down in the ink.

 ——

A penguin once swam to a faraway land,

For sunshine and heat, his holiday planned,

But he baked in the sun,

Squawked, “This isn’t fun!”

And waddled back home, rather tanned.

Three Coins Spent

The Ministry owns every syllable.

The fountain sings freely, water speaking for us.

A brass meter ticks on my throat, a clock wound too tight.

I come to hear it, because it says what we cannot.

Most have grown spare: clipped commands, no confessions.

I have grown used to nods, to eyes speaking instead of mouths.

But I am a poet. Silence is a storm caged in my ribs.

I have watched her: ink bruising her fingers, silence like thunder waiting.

Once I spent a week’s bread on one word: Careful.

Once she gave me Careful—I held it like a jewel, a bell ringing inside me.

Now three coins jingle in my pocket: life or confession.

I feel her coming, choosing me over survival.

I press them into the slot. The gears release. Three words only.

I cannot afford reply. Silence burns in my throat.

At last I speak: Without you, nothing.

Her words strike like fire. My bottle overflows. My hand trembles.

Tomorrow they will come for me, to gag me, to strip me of voice.

Tomorrow they will take her—but tonight I smile, slow and certain.

Three coins spent. Eternity bought.

Her words, my silence—together, unowned, ours.

The Current

I chased the shadow I once cast

the way you look for keys—

checking old rooms,

turning cushions,

peering under the bed of years.

 

But the thing I sought

had already moved on,

a current curling past

the bend of my own memory.

 

The river does not keep

what it once carried;

it remakes itself

with every breath of rain,

every stone worn smooth.

 

I stand in the shallows,

the water folding around my legs,

and realise—

the self I was seeking

is here,

is flowing,

and if I am to hold it at all,

I must learn

to step into the current

and let go.

My Chair and I

My chair is old, a ragged sight,

Its stuffing spills to left and right,

The fabric’s torn, the woodwork groans,

It’s weathered crumbs and midnight moans.

I’ve parked my rear on seats unknown,

Sat on plush thrones in stylish homes,

But none have matched your firm embrace,

Or cupped my cheeks with such bold grace.

These newer seats may pout and preen,

All glossy curves and showroom sheen,

But none have ever gripped so tight,

Or held my bum with such sheer delight.

Instructions for Being Human

// initialise body → if heartbeat == true, proceed

// else: wait

1. Waking

Try not to panic. The light will hurt.

So will gravity, noise, the realisation that none of this is optional.

2. Skin

It is not armour. It will not keep out the world.

3. Emotions

These will override logic. Frequently.

You may want to uninstall.

You can’t.

4. Connections

People arrive unfinished.

Do not try to complete them.

They will resent you.

Love them anyway, or not. Both will hurt.

5. Hunger

Feed more than the stomach.

You will hunger for touch, for purpose, for quiet.

Feed carefully.

Excess = corruption.

6. Joy (beta feature)

May arrive unannounced:

a smell, a chord progression, the way a stranger says “take care” and almost means it.

7. Loneliness.exe

This runs in the background. Always.

Ignore it if you can.

Or listen. Sometimes it whispers useful things.

8. Mortality

Yes.

(This is working as intended.)

9. Error Handling

You will break.

You will be rebuilt by time, or other humans, or not at all.

That’s not failure.

That’s versioning.

10. End Process

Do not attempt to understand everything.

Do not wait for perfection.

Begin anyway.

// commit changes

// save draft

// run again

Unmended

Each night the house smooths its skin. 

Cracked plaster seals, paint blushes fresh, 

floorboards remember how not to groan. 

 

In the kitchen, tiles reattach themselves, 

grout knitting seamless as if no pan 

was ever thrown, no water ever spilled. 

 

The window we shattered last winter

glimmers whole by dawn,

its glass cold as a withheld word.

 

Upstairs, the mirror forgets

the arguments it has reflected.

But your eyes do not.

 

My joints ache in a language

the house does not speak.

Your hands tremble, unplastered, unpainted.

 

By morning, the house is immaculate,

a museum of absence.

We move through it

like old ghosts,

unmended.

A Candle for the Unnamed

Here’s to the child I never named,

the call I never made,

the song I hummed once,

then forgot.

 

To the painting left in my head,

streaked with colours no hand

ever mixed.

To the house with the yellow door

we never lived in,

the city I passed by,

the stranger I almost loved.

 

There is a cemetery

not marked on any map,

where all the unlived lives lie:

the apology unsaid,

the poem unwritten,

the “yes” I swallowed,

the “no” I let rot on my tongue.

 

I light a candle tonight

for the almosts,

for the flicker before the flame,

for the ghosts

with no names to answer to.

 

Somewhere, they bloom—

delicate as breath,

wide as regret.

The Man and His Moon

There was a young man in a hat, 

Who fell quite in love with the Moon; 

He courted her nightly with howls in the night, 

And serenades played on a horn. 

 

He sang, “Oh my lunar delight! 

Oh roundest, resplendent balloon! 

Come down from the sky, and we’ll merrily tie 

A knot by the end of the June!” 

 

So he built a vast ladder of cheese, 

(With the help of a wayward baboon), 

And up he did climb through the highest of clouds, 

To wed his bewildering Moon. 

 

But alas! when he reached for her hand, 

His fingers met nothing but glow— 

For the Moon, though she gleams, is made wholly of beams, 

And cannot be met far below. 

 

Now he floats in a coat through the sky, 

With a pocket of onions and rye; 

And the people below shake their heads as they go, 

At the man who made love to the sky.

Return to Us

We borrowed the stars— 
calcium for our teeth, 
iron for our blood, 
carbon laced in each breath we press against the dark. 

We walk, brittle and shining, 
wearing the debris of old collisions, 
the soft ash of suns 
that burned themselves out long “before” 
the word meant anything at all. 

In the marrow, in the nailbed, 
in the white gleam of an eye catching light— 
the stars pulse their call: 
Return to us. 

We are brief trustees of brilliance, 
temporary vessels of a flame 
we did not strike, 
cannot keep. 

One day, 
when the chest quiets, 
we will give back each atom, 
scatter them to dark soil, to sky, 
to dust adrift through things unnamed. 

And somewhere, 
in the cold ache of a young galaxy, 
the raw gold of our bones 
will vibrate into shape again.

The Hours

I said I would buy the flowers myself—

Step into the morning, become someone else.

The day is a ribbon, the sky’s like a bell,

And the hours chime softly, though no one can tell.

I pass through the sunlight, all lilac and glass,

But I’m always becoming the girl I once was.

Who am I now, in this glitter of air?

The city forgets me—yet I’m still there.

Not quite the hostess, nor quite the wife—

Just a breath between moments, the shape of a life.

And the hours—they slip,

Like rain from the wrist.

Like parties and petals,

Like kisses half-missed.

Was I ever a self?

Was I only the light

That danced on the wall

Then vanished from sight?

There’s something in June that is just like a wound—

All beauty and sorrow, entangled, attuned.

Peter once loved me—his knife of a gaze—

But I chose the safe harbour, not passion’s blaze.

Yet even now, as the bell strikes the day,

I wonder what girl he saw walk away.

I gather my guests, I smile and I stir—

But who is this woman they take me for?

A thread through a drawing-room, always composed,

Yet aching with silence where nothing is closed.

And the hours—they slip,

Like rain from the wrist.

Like parties and petals,

Like kisses half-missed.

Was I ever a self?

Was I only the light

That danced on the wall

Then vanished from sight?

I think of the boy who jumped to the air,

Fell through the sun like a prayer unanswered.

Septimus, stranger—your shadow is mine,

Both of us slipping the ropes of time.

The soul is a secret, it does not grow old—

It burns and it flickers, it never is told.

And the hours—they pass,

But leave no trace.

I gather them all

In silence and grace.

The self is a mirror,

The self is a sound—

The toll of Big Ben

And the hush underground.

The Unlived Lives

There was a child who might have danced 

barefoot in the summer dusk, 

her laughter rising with the fireflies, 

her life humming something soft in the meadow— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have asked 

a thousand questions about the stars, 

kept his soul awake with whys, 

believed in answers like bedtime stories— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have painted 

oceans on the inside of his walls, 

made ships from crayons and faith, 

and sailed beyond the reach of grief—

but never did. 

There was a child who might have wept 

only for broken toys, 

whose wounds healed with time, 

whose nightmares ended with morning light— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have learned 

the weight of kindness, 

how a single held hand could keep the dark at bay, 

how not to be afraid to live— 

but never did.

And the world, 

stone-faced and busy, 

folded them into its silence— 

as seeds in pockets, 

waiting for ground soft enough 

to grow again.

Still

The kettle screamed—

but no one moved.

She stood at the sink,

hands in cold water,

not washing, not—

“It’s not that I…”

(pause)

“—never mind.”

 

The calendar still says June.

(He went in April.)

No one took it down.

No one—

There’s a photo face-down

on the dresser.

You don’t ask why.

She doesn’t

…explain.

 

At dinner:

chairs scraped.

Forks grazed plates.

Chewing,

swallowing,

nothing else.

You almost said

“Do you miss him?”

but instead asked

for the salt.

 

It was already right in front of you.

Words crossed out.

Sentences left half-born.

Ink bled

where shoulders once trembled.

No one cries.

No one says

why.

No one says

his name.

 

Still,

the house listens.

Ashes on the Wind

Cassiel’s work was illegal.

More than illegal—

unspeakable.

The Mourning Authority

called it

corporeal sabotage.

She called it

remembering.

Once,

there were funerals.

Eulogies.

Flowers

left to rot

on graves.

Then—

the Purge of Names.

the Vaulting of the Remains.

They said grief

was a contagion

of the old world.

It held back progress.

It was

dirty.

Now—

no mourning.

no monuments.

no ashes scattered in beauty.

Except

by her.

She scattered

D.S.

over a ridge

where snow still clung

to the heather.

She did not know

who he had been.

Soldier, maybe.

Teacher.

Someone’s father.

It didn’t matter.

Each scattering

was a restoration

of dignity.

Each ritual

a quiet rebellion.

Cassiel disappeared

that day.

Vanished

before they could name her.

But the ashes

had already risen.

They clung to

suits and sensors,

streaked the government’s

white walls,

caught in the antennae

of every tower.

By morning,

the sky

above the capital

had turned grey.

Not from rain.

From

memory.