The Gingerbread Cinder Path

Tell me to run

and to turn away,
and burn my wing-tips
when you touch me in faith,
amongst fairies and sugar and forest flames
I have nothing to give you, to want, or to take,
but beauty now and
honest grace, in our houses of straw…
…speak,
and my offers hide nothing,
inside me,
only pleasure and fire, misdirection and guidance,
no veils, and no lies, or no time-fading guise that will
bring any other truth out…
I can tell you only, as I see without
doubt, without pause,
or regret,
there is another way
yet, to learn how much softer and tender
to tread;
that a path of cinders and gingerbread
can be forged
from torturous, bewildered nail-beds, through thorns
that have scratched
before…
pull open all my doors and number them,
one to ten…
a treasure lies, each time, within,
wrapped and ribboned, for taking and given, with a
skyward gasp;
as nails and tongues and lips would
stroke glass and all manner of precious
things, …and so I caress and swallow all venom
that stings, even so, and leaves its scars,
and wonder just how far you will
follow if I
drop breadcrumbs
that lead to the stars?  

Arguments (for & against)

Inspired by a Leeds Savage Club writing task

If I look skyward to dark clouds
and rainbows,
that may or may not be,
each tree,
each tumbling, rolling dale,
has still
its wanton eyes on me…

…Patience is a virtue,

I was always told, but
how true when the bends and the kinks,
and the folds in heartbeats, grew deeper
and more chiasmic each day,
and a fog crept sinister to impede my
tender,
naïve ways, of seeing and becoming
all things I could give,
when the holes needed clearing and
the filthy sieve to be picked with
a fork tang, a needle,
the sharpest of pins
before sweeter ingredients ever found their
way in;

perhaps blood was required to thicken

the sauce, to stain petals of lilies that spoke
white words of remorse, when brought and laid,
and intended as truth,
were only ever known as the power to use,
and to shape a soul, that was pleased to believe,
with each newly soaked and sticky leaf,
and accepted the marks they left on me
as deserved stepping stones to never…

We hacked our way, you and I, together
across fields of barren nothing (and everything)
and sacred, purple heather,
in a rain that would not stop,
despite the corks and the bottle
tops I tried so hard to push
into the holes; and as another day and
night shall approach
where I should crouch and bring you
roses, for whatever was
and will not be,
I know now
there only ever can be
parts of something,
if you have only pieces to give.  

The Dancers

Inspired by a photograph as part of a Leeds Savage Club task   

They tell me you cannot miss that

which you have not had,
how then do I find
myself in sadness
and light, all at once blazing days,
and longed for nights
where I whirl as though dancing
and lean as in arms
with none yet to catch me
but moments of calm and
busy, there to fill up my
head, with something other
than rainbows
and lilies,
air-castles instead, and I tango
alone, in the sand, the
steps all wrong, for want of
a hand to guide, with sweet
trace of my spine,
and wanting of a moment
that was never yet mine but
in the heaven of my dreams,
and the vacant skies, without
wasps
that buzz overhead, threatening
extinction, there’ll be bluebirds
instead, to dance beside us
as we gladly forget.