To be a spider of fiber

 The spider's legs unfold and it rises slowly.
It crosses the floor in the quiet of the night.

Under the fridge it goes.
Where other insects sit in hush.

Witnessing it's arrival in terror.
Not willing to move incase it invites an attack.

The spider turns its body looking across the hunched insects.
Partially exposed out of the dust.

It tries to identify a bite size creature.
That would offer little resistance.

The spider registered movement from the back.
There a gecko appeared furious with energy.

The spider turned and crossed the floor.
Back to it's little crevice.

Folded it's legs back into itself.
And asked itself- Why didn't I just weave a web?

The chest

 It was an old tool box
locked up with treasures inside
Padlocks and chains
Thick sheet metal

You can't get inside
Many fine things sit inside
Waiting to see the light of the day
The light of someone's eyes

But the treasure is confined
All the onlooker has is imagination
For whatever's hidden inside
It may just be rusted tools

Not even usable anymore
But rumours are there's gold
Opals and gems
You can't break it open

She is the clothesline

On top of a hill a few miles from the town.

 Exposed long grass uncut like a frowning beard.

 Yellowing from lack of water, droopy strands.

 A tall isolated structure stands, a clothesline.

 Standing like a skeleton in the breeze.

 Empty no clothes hanging on or underneath.

 A human woman stands there in sunshine.

 Naked in the shape of the clothesline.

 The house is oval and also empty Pulsing with magnetic energy.

 Dirty clothes and blankets inside unseen.

  Awaiting a non existent washing machine.

Keep your eyes on the road

 we drove down the curving motorway to the bottom fo the hill.
The beautiful and the unseen screaming at the driver.

Veer left, veer left.

And so he did allowing us to avoid a traffic queue.
I was backwards and needed to turn around.

Turn around, turn around.

And so I did ot atleast I tried to.
The motion of the car itself working against me.

Break, break...

The car slowed to a halt behind the other cars.
I was still struggling to turn around.

Turn around, turn around.

Is that how it goes you get to the end of your road
Still not able to turn it around.

Guess again and fail

 you are supposed to be...

guess and fail...

teach teach teach

write write write

fools gold

You are supposed to reply

To connect for just a while

I'll take a guess give it my best

timid replies endangered smiles

you were supposed to...

I can hear it pouring out of your mind

Just say it to my face

I don't read brail 

or deal well with betrayal

I was supposed to...

Guess and fail again

There, the predictable shut down point

Did I say the wrong word

what was I supposed to say?

why don't I just mess up all over again?

isn't that what you are counting on?

Jennifer the brave

 Ever changing, adapting,

she is lost. Oblivion calls.

The little girl who gave away
every last scrap. Starving to death, upon cold stone.

Waiting for someone
to find her,
save her. The Dearth compounds!

To see her and complement her, convince her she is enough.
If only she could find herself! But she is nowhere...
Oblivion calls. Yet not even oblivion can find her.

Oblivion seeks her, but she is camouflaged so well.
Even diabolical magnifying glasses cannot find her,
for she absconded from a world dull and passive.

Given no permission, no blessing to proceed,
to find herself. Yet a strength now germinates,
growing within.

Dig deep and spit out the stones you swallowed, woman!
Vomit them out. Stand tall!
Offend the world as I do.

Walk out across your existence.
Demand and claim.
Seek no permission. Take it! Be not in the background.

Empower yourself in a world that engineers us to passivity,
to mindless consuming, to becoming quiet and small.
Those things are not you, woman!

So the tears and the loss.
The crying and despair.
Sew it into your words.

Create. Lash out!
Go forward, for no one can save you.
Be Jennifer the brave, eternal, perceptive and true!

Powerless educators

 In the back office pessi-optimistic jerks come gossipers put their mouths to work.
Teachers getting through every angle of a well constructed scandal.
Passing folders, passing the buck, cute little sneakers, never merit, always luck.
Always complaining about the little that lacks.
While you offer nothing your own shit is jack.

When the all hits the fan, you'll wring your hands.
Lament for the victim of the crime, again you grind the great grape vine.
Hypocrite badges and tirades of fury, you are the ideal self appointed jury.
When you are wronged the others should appease, not get off on your suffering unfortunately.

Follow the norms, echo the slogans, echo the quirky quotes, show yawn.
You have no power to impact the world, static as the limpet clinging motherpearl.
So you wield sarcasm, sharpened quips, from blackened teeth, coffee stained lips.