A Pale Sphere

The moon floats over the black sea,
A pale sun elipsed in whispers of cloud.

It dances over streetlights and fire sides,
Dips as if to skim the surface of the water
Before leaping up to claim its place.

A watchful eye from the heavens,
A beacon for the after-dark traveler.
A ghost with a deathly aura.

And like a spirit bound for hell,
It is gone.

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Incandescent Adolescent

The room was heavy
With warm adolescence.
Each one of us sat there,
Self-conscious, brushing back
Our ever-greasy hair in an
Effort to stay awake,
To feign interest and
Attention.

Every question met with
Blank faces, the occasional
Raised eyebrow or shake of the head.
We glance at one-another,
But never hold contact.

So many faces, each with
A name and a spark
In the imagination.
The seconds pass and words
Flow like treacle through
Our minds and voices.

This prison cell has windows,
No bird could roost on their sill.
They reveal nought of the world
Except that the sun is slowly setting
Behind us.

Oh Shit

Amusing, the way we view death.
Many people say they are unafraid,
That it is inevitable,
It comes to us all in time.

But what if it were to strike
Prematurely?

To answer this,
Gaze into the most feared
And dangerous place
Of any man's world;
His dream.

I lie barely asleep,
I'm sitting in the passenger seat of a nothing-special sedan
With my family.
We are driving along a steep, slick, mountain road.

I know what is going to happen.

We turn sharply into a corner
The car slides
Sideways
Through my window
I glimpse the edge
Charging towards me
Racing to meet us.
I'm silently hoping for some sort of traction,
Some invisible friction to hold us back.

I have no time to finish this thought
We're sailing, no, falling
Through the air
Towards the ground.

I can't see it.

My eyes are shut.

Bracing for impact.

Silently wishing for a chance of survival.

Wishing, because there is no hope left.

Desert Storm

A hot breeze blows through the open window
The night air rolling across my face.
There is a haze about everything,
As if I'm looking through a pane
Of dusty glass.

But the window is down,
The dust is all around.

A thin sheen covers everything,
The cars, the shops, the people,
Even the very air itself is blanketed
By a sheet of sand and grit.

Roll up the windows, he says.
I oblige, strangling the warm current,
Replacing it with the icy whine
Of the car's air conditioning.

Around the car the wind begins to pick up.
It whistles and moans as it pushes past us
Like a heard of wildebeest stampeding away
From some unseen threat.

And then the beast appears;
Rearing its massive head,
Bearing its yellow fangs,
It charges into us at full force.

At once, everything is gone
All we can see is the brown dust.
We are stuck.

We move forwards, hoping nothing lies in our way,
Not stopping, aware that the others are doing the same.

As swift as was its approach,
The beast hurtles past us.
In its wake, nothing but the ever present dust.

We drive on.
You can open the window now, if you like, he says.
I do. The warm air wraps itself around me,
Caressing me slowly to sleep.

Arabian Days

A strange rhyme scheme, this
Though I'm afraid that you might miss
The meaning hidden within the words.

Sitting under the air con hiss
The cool breeze, a simple bliss
Covering the chatter of distant birds.

The sun shines on.

Barrista

Appreciation of simple pleasures

Is something that grows on you

Out here.

I have water to drink.

This is good.

I won't die today.

Not from dehydration anyway.

There is food to eat, so starvation

Is also out.

I have clothes.

I can afford to shop at a supermarket.

I can sit in this coffee shop

And spend the same as week's worth of my cleaner's wages

On a drink and a cake.

Funny.

She will probably never sit on these seats,

Or drink coffee drinks out of tall, glass mugs.

Is that unfair?

No.

That's just how life is.

The Furnace

Heat.
Like stepping out into..
What?
A sauna.
But without any steam.
Or a door.
Your body screams,
"Turn back!
Get back on the plane!"
But something inside you smiles.
Something purrs deep in the pit of your stomach.

Adventure.

Dust.
For miles around,
Stretching out in every direction.
Making the still, hot air heavier.
It slides into your toes,
Mulches into the sweat on your plastic sandals.

Wind.
There is none.
No gentle breeze to relieve your dripping brow.
No ferocious gusts to sway the palms.

Just the dusty, dense, dry heat.