You can make a doll house

By -
When you are young
your colour choices and plot lines
are marvelled at 
whiskers, pink stars 
mermaid hamsters.

As an adult
they are not appropriate 
for the office
things are done 
this way,
in shoes and documents.

I want to pull the roof off 
and pour glitter in your tea.

Teal hearts, stay true
to your flower crowns
and fins —
your worlds
are never-ending.


C. LJ Ireton 2025






Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Lioness, outside The Garden

By -
Lioness, outside The Garden  Not all is lost - my lion walks loyal beside us. She was where I lay my head under the low stars, in the uncomplicated, verdant heart  of living; where ground-wings opened to pink and perfume  ever-present. He called her Ariel. I call her Ari. She carries the star-thrum energy of earth newly created; all fire eyes and focus,  yellow allegiance, claws on instinct. Whereas I - I can't stop thinking. I leave our tent; bark and stem like praying hands and rest on her sand-coloured fur - She is still the same; four-legged land of the horizon,  muscles of vine and forehead of moss, a head that moves like water around a river bend - a moving, prowling garden.   No, not all is lost. LJ Ireton, 2024
Read more

Boleyn in the storm

By -
The heartbeat of the whale-throat sea  is slow, pushing a world's blood: blue heavy with history, into prophecy that licks into waves like a dragon's tongue frothy with wind and disbelief. But I believe – my red rhythm recognises something floating furious, my own pulse dances in the bigger beast's drum. And creature, we scream the dirt and silver of the storm, eroded limbs and salt-eyed strong breaking the line of water into a circle – myself into myself back up to the surface. C. LJ 2025 (Inspired by Six Wild Crowns)
Read more

For the chick on the hillside

By -
Contour feathers were growing over the stardust down of the chick,  tiny on the hillside copying the hen,  digging. Woken to the world, it was exact same pale gold  as its mother's tail, the tips of her wings. They moved together;  but one was assured and sharp,  the other a sweet disciple.  From this distance, nothing seemed more precious  than that palm-sized soul, delicate of the earth, imitating to live. I whispered over and over: protection  for this one.  And maybe, being a passing stranger, my prayer was small. But maybe it could grow strong wings too, long and waterproof, over my tufted feather-words.  LJ Ireton, 2024
Read more