Dainty flecks of snow
Fragrant vines that stretch the day
Blossom my namesake.
I am not human
with eyes that can see
but I know what is coming.
I am not human
with ears that can hear
but I know when the music ceases to play.
I am not human
with a mouth to speak
but I have many words to say
and many voices to feed.
I have no hands
No fingers to lace in fingers.
Just arm to chest
to secure my breast
and guard my heart from pain.
No feet to stand upon,
no toes to clench
but knees to lean on
and legs to hold in vain.
When I was your puppet, plaything,
my strings short and tangled
would hold me down.
Pull me to the ground,
weighted and heavy,
And by those thin cords
you would twist and contort
until they danced to your tune,
for that make-believe,
miniature marionette show.
I danced and danced,
twirled and pranced,
whirled and spun,
swayed, skipped, jumped and leaped
until my little dainty feet would bleed.
But you could not see
that this quaint pink frock
was not for me.
Nor the sailor suit,
bright and blue
like the roaring sea.
But I would wear the costumes,
gallop the stage to please you.
Bow when the audience applauded,
just to amuse you.
When I was too tired,
too weak to dance the charade,
you’d pluck me up by
my fragile strings white
and chuck me aside.
“You are not like my other puppets,
so pink, so blue, so bright".
“You are not good enough”, you’d say.
“You're just not right.”
And I would cry.
Until one night,
battered and broken,
I caught a glimpse
of my reflection.
Saw the worn-out strings,
and not part of me.
And I cut the strings,
hand to arm,
leg to feet,
head to heart.
But did not fall apart;
instead grew taller and prouder.
Thriving; rising from the ashes,
sprouting, budding, blossoming
like a sycamore tree from the soil,
a grand oak from the dirt.
I was your puppet, plaything
with tangled strings to hold.
But you cannot pull my roots out;
they are strong, beautiful, and bold.
The Buffalo and The Fly (2018)
One day on the dirt and grass
A buffalo came to ride.
It wore its back,
Crowned its chest
And on legs carved from boulders,
It came in stride.
When it breathed like chimney tops
Grey smoke came to rise
And from its lungs a storm did brew,
With each beat, a thunder strike.
On its snout, a creature small resigned.
As dust to sun and with wings of glass
of the insect; fly, that could not climb.
Did not soar but only crawled.
You told me you were the buffalo and I,
the fly. Too fragile, too insignificant.
Could not move without the marvellous beast.
Another day past, in the suns of Spain,
In the dome of sand and sweat
Spectators swarmed to watch in awe
As the golden earth spilled red.
A bull with horns that bent like rivers,
Strong enough to break their banks
would watch as man
With shoulders puffed out like birds,
Tricked them into their own slaughter
With treacherous cloth
That waved them to their death.
You said I was the bull
That with shoulders bold and brass
Was foolish enough to chase lies man had said
And follow sport to sacrifice.
Again, tomorrow came.
This time I was the mouse
That followed greed;
my dairy prize,
To the jaws of your trap
Where my neck was snapped and bones splintered
Because I bit off more than I could chew.
When I asked for support
You told me I was incapable; weak.
When you drove me to anger
You told me I was unstable; weak.
Because I strive for better
You told me I was greedy; weak
I am the fly.
I can be proud like the buffalo
But can ask for help to fix myself;
Repair my wings so I can glide
Across the great blue again.
I am the bull.
I am brave, I am strong
And aware of my temper
But will not let others abuse it to hurt me.
I am the mouse.
I may be small. I may not look like much.
But I aim for success.
I aim to be a better me
And will not be trapped by those that underestimate
My capacity for greatness.
In all the colours of the rainbow, I have chosen here.
For years to come, it is you who longs to dance beneath the sun. Or upon it, if you can reach; way above the skies and stars that guard over in your sleep.
For heaven knows a door is half-closed to those who wither, small and unkind in a treacherous state of mind.
Those who ponder and wonder in delight have no fear, or torture, within the light.
But those who scatter their hearts in darkness have an opening to soulless, lifeless reigns within the stature of their own existence.
Come, heavily and breathe. Where no mortal has walked before, you shall aspire to dance amongst the shadows.
Laugh at death, sorrow and unfeeling motions of pain.
Or you could rise among the ashes and spurt out in sparks of fire; burn and dazzle. Furnaces of passion and flight.
It is you who can forge and create a dream, and only you who can achieve it.
Don't wait for the storm to pass; take your thunder and bleed it.
Dinkz the Demon (2019)
There’s a myth about a beast with inked out flesh, Repping art and stories,
carved out Black lines that tell a little more
Than those fairy tales ever could.
Patterns and faces;
animals in mapped out places,
reflecting in the moonlight
as if touched by night itself.
A monster that grows in the dark.
Prints out it’s name in the shadows of a heart;
made from Hell’s fibre but not short of earth.
It seeks glory in the drops of the moon;
pours into the black and
marks it’s name on trees.
Five strokes sounding into the bark.
History details how this fire-dripped demon can take a spirit and make it live in a single image.
A shot for one heart beat. A breath for every flash; snapped in those lens-eyes that hold you.
Lead you to a different realm
where reality bends to
Credit: Dinkz.JPEG (2019)
Where you’ll live forever in angles and light specs; thriving as your body finds evolution in the pixels. Growing in the colours of camera film.
The devil that grants you eternity.
Capturing you with its eyes that can see
beyond the impossible.
Making your life a painting.
Sending you to sleep in the sounds of a camera flick. Basking in the white flash of a digital heart.
There is a tale about a man that can save a person in a single camera shot.
Let them live forever in a photograph.
Well as tales go, this one is true.