Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Eyes In The Portrait

There’s a new ghost in my gallery,
peering from the frames of all my paintings,
her stare, so accusatory,
as she watches me with my wife’s soft hair,
twirled around troubled fingertips,
lips lost in a lullaby that lasts all night,
ignorant of the rising sun and the expectation for a woman’s place to be in the kitchen, rather than underneath the sheets and up to mischief.

She stares like I have done something wrong by moving on,
and I keep her in my conscience,
like I kept the photos of the trip we took to become women.
She wails through the walls,
thick, thundering chains around thin wrists,
and her wandering becomes a waltz,
loud and lavish as the sun rises and sets,
and her eyes follow me to places she can never go.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Rock and Roll

My rock and roll iconoclast,

clasped tight in my cherry embrace,

homecoming Queen with the devil’s flowers around her wrist,

and I miss her when she splits to go buy me a drink,

cheap cider, and a blossoming kiss when she returns from the bar, like the prodigal daughter.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Monogamy

We planted flowers where nobody would find them,
exchanging vows like Christmas gifts at the gates of he old factory on the hill that was meant to be flats six months ago.
Life was always slow, in this kind of town,
the kind of place where sunsets and winter winds become one,
and life goes on,
day by day,
late bus by late bus,
late dinner by late dinner,
collapsing into a slumber that allowed another day to creep by.

It was the same,
until I saw her,
and that’s when I began sowing seeds on the streets,
smiling at the sun that set them on the right path.
I trained my left hand to carry the heavy, holy promise of her love,
but I could never be ready.

I held her like a mother.
I shivered like a child.
I don’t think I’m done growing,
but it stumbles by the wayside for a while,
my bones, breaking and healing as my soul sits atop my shoulders, shaking her head as I search my surroundings for danger, that would never come.

Her vows and her faith weigh heavy on my mind,
but her body is light and loving on my lap.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Adventures of Two Very Visible Lesbians

Mountains bowed before us,
humbled by the harrowing majesty of our romance,
and as night came and went,
in the skies, birds surrounded the sun and moon at all hours,
reaching out their wings around them,
in case they felt faint and fell from their powder blue perch.

Living once just wasn’t for us,
on the hunt for an existence that could match our passions,
visiting God for tea as he simpered and sighed,
ecstatic to see his two favourite daughters become cursed by Cupid, before his very eyes.

Ambitiously, we kissed,
so certain that our ecstasy could make the world a little brighter.
Honestly, maybe we were wrong,
love doesn’t cure everything, but,
it helps the thunder sound a little sweeter.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Summergirl

There was this record,
that you hated and wouldn’t hear,
no matter how hard I haggled and all the battles I fought to make you see that it was our lives in a neat, sixteen track package.
I spent the last few weeks of the summer shaking and salivating,
possessed with the feeling of finally being understood,
by some distant pop “demon” (as my father found it fit to call her),
and I just wanted to show you,
that we weren’t alone.

You wouldn’t be told,
and we sat in the hallway in silence,
watching illegally downloaded American TV shows,
so that we would be too distracted to actually talk to each other.
I was beginning to think it was about more than the record,
but you wouldn’t be told,
putting your hands, your glares and other things across my lips to keep me quiet.

You know,
Dogs can play poker,
and sure, it’s intense,
but it makes a little more sense when you confess that sometimes,
two teenage girls play poker,
alone and without an audience,
maybe not even a full game
without any real idea of what they’re doing.
It’s never actually been a crime (for girls),
and maybe it’s good,
like that record was good,
and like we could be good, if we could just…

Late summer love always feels a little misguided when term begins again.
Sweet sixteen,
out of school uniform and out of my mind as the last of the September sun glistens and kisses my freckles,
the way you like to do,
until someone finds our secret hideaway,
and we make up a lie that nobody believes,
and I listen to that record again,
wishing that my life was an electro pop banger.

I was your chronic Candy Warhol,
curious about the butterflies that lined my stomach when we shared alcopops in an Irish bar we snuck in to.
I was stuck on you,
no matter how many times my playboy mouth said different.
You said so too, sometimes,
when you’d had too many Smirnoff Ices and had decided to be beautifully blunt.
Your fleeting kiss was ice cream, topped with honey.