A Poem a Day (270): Two skins

 

Two skins

 

He runs between these forbidden ways,

veins coursing down narrow train lines,

etched in skin, serrated pink ruin,

travels in ordinary flesh moulded to him.

 

Lost summers chase his back, tattooed inks

pay homage to his life’s long gathering,

drawing his heart line from end to shine.

 

She treads a pattern of convoluted curves,

wood slats precarious on a bridge of discord.

Misplaced fools peer into this great grey sea,

enrich its bleakness, take it by the hand.

 

Steel bracelets rattle from wrist to elbow,

Whistle a restless tune of artless wandering,

drawing her heart line in their shimmering.

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 5, 2020

A Poem a Day (269): Map of lights

 Map of lights

 

We’re walking the highest point

breathing light like oxygen,

rooting memories in the trees

til here we sit, composed and still,

eyes consuming this easy earth.

Our birthright fans out, opening

like a map for the waking stars,

a blinking grid of neon lines.

 

Bitter-sweet coffee warms our bones,

breathing out clouds like dragons,

imagining the moon laughing back.

We’re so high humans are invisible

as though the whole world lies empty

of its scurrilous consuming ants

and nature will make a comeback,

creeping the return of wolf and deer.

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 2, 2020

A Poem a Day (268): Baking with nan

 

Baking with nan

 

Nan passes me the rolling pin, caked again

with dollops of creamy mush. Gooey sticking

elastic lines circle the stripy bowl’s pink insides,

the peeling pastry breathes out, running rings

for my warm stubby fingers to trace and avail.

I’m too small to reach the wooden table top,

so I stand tall on a two-stepped safety stool,

smart in my blue bear pinny, sleeves back,

rolled as I ought, professional, arms powdered

with flour, some flying into my yellow curls,

turning me prematurely grey. She laughs loud

and it echoes all around, purple rinse bobbing.

Some prize seeks the secret bowels of the oven

and the malty warmth explodes out, small hands

diving around the kitchen, spilling into corners,

until this gusty tang of gingerbread cloaks it all.

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 1, 2020