The dot of an i

I look down and find myself
Atop a Mayan ruin,
Gazing out over miles of Guatemalan jungle.
Lush green trees stretch their branches for miles beneath me,
Monkeys wake with the sun and
Yawn their howls through the branches that they swing through.
Birds flutter their wings as they stretch from their nest.
Beaks open and tweets sound to the ground where
A baby bird has stretched too far and fallen,
It´s head twisted giving away its broken neck.

I float within my thoughts,
Content and puffy faced.
A mere speck,
The dot of an i.
A tiny ink stain on this rock
That peeps over this green sea.

I must have leapt from a cloud,
For I don’t belong in this world that I have jumped into,
The way you jump into a dream -
Feet first, holding your nose -
And your eyes squeezed tight shut.

At Sea

I juggle with words but
They fall through my fingers
Like grains of sand.
It’s the beauty of the ocean
Before me, zapping any thoughts
That floate to the surface.

I sit, unmoving.
The only thing still in this storm of elements.
The tide playfully tickles my feet,
Drifting in and out of my toes.
I could be a rock -
Slowly being eroded
Until my hard skin is washed to the sea leaving
A softer, untouched shell.

I sit, in awe of the strong, lively waves
That tempt my toes to dance their way to the horizon.
I would be like a ballerina from Swan Lake,
Gracefully poised on tip toes
With hands joined as in prayer.
At home on the wave when
It arches my back to envelope me
So that I collapse, a rag doll.
Blown by the wind and thrown by the waves,
Unable to breathe and,
Like my words,
Unable to reach the surface.

Finally then, I would be at home on the wave -
Never to return to land.

A good quote

"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter" - Martin Luther King

Gold

Gold is a british one pound coin.
Gold is a medal that means
You’re the best.
Gold is the butter croissant melting in the mouth
On a Saturday morning.
It's hugging, and squeezing,
But it never being enough.
It’s sitting in your corner of the world
Between your four walls
And not caring what’s on them -
Or maybe it is caring.
It's having time to think -
To really think.
It’s your eyes fighting to close
And seeing darkness.
It’s standing still in one place
And being perfectly happy with where you are.
It’s the colour of the butterflies that flutter
In the pit of your stomach.
It is the soft, squidgy wetness that’s in
A colour that’s bright yellow and called gold.