Realism

Am I real

She asks

Of course little Cricket 

I say

Reaching for her hand

It is cool and soft

Like buttercups

In the early morning dew

How do you know

Your hair

Your face

Your dress

Your shoes

They all make you Alice 

But I do not understand who made me

She whispers

Perhaps you made yourself

You survived the story at least

Much more than I could do

And I am old and weathered 

She bites her bottom lip

It turns pink 

Perhaps reality isn't for us

She muses

Our heads are full of words

We can barely sit still 

To hear the world 

And all its magic

One day 

I think

Reality will come crushing down

Make its mark and separate us 

I do not want that day to come

I am happy with her hand in mine

All that she is

All that I am 

Intertwined 

And breathing. 

Urn

Her pink fingertips

Touch the frayed edges

Of her dress

We would look pretty

In a silver urn 

She sings

The branches of the trees

Sway 

Happy like an afterglow

It is too early to be gone 

I whisper 

We must trust the earth 

Keep our feet firmly 

On the ground 

Our skin is doused in sunshine 

Better than acid

She seethes 

That makes me feel sad

There is no going back

From the damage 

I wonder when we will rest

If our final place

Will shine and glow

Like her shoes 

Perhaps it is best not to think

She says

Reaching for my hand

Tomorrow we will stitch the edges 

Start again

Not end.

Dolly

We make dollies 

Out of wheat sheaves 

And rose petals 

Happy and strange words

Are my home

I think

She giggles

I see you

Her fingers flap like

Butterfly wings

Far quicker than mine could ever go

We like how the dollies 

Smell and feel

Almost as if they are alive

Perhaps we should weave in 

Some hearts 

She says

I am wrapped up in the work

But I nod

She sings to herself 

Reason is music to 

A jaded heart

Her song is sweet and pure

The adventure did not

Make her jaded 

It just made her grow 

In more than one way

She chimes

Perhaps if we gave the dollies

Potions and red shoes

They would grow too

We look at each other

And smile

Hands red and sore

But content

Happy with our work. 

Pocketknife

We take the stolen pocketknife

From our pocket

The blade is dull

But sharp enough to carve

A sonnet on our skin 

It is like brushing sand

Smooth

Soothing 

Something that works

We have the taste of metal

In our mouth 

Time is frozen and empty

We recall the grove

Which is green and blooming 

Birds on the wing 

A veiled kind of blossoming 

We are not afraid of pain

But we are tired

Of suffering 

Sleep is the only release

Dreams and nothingness 

Fourteen lines

And rhyming couplets 

Something we will never achieve 

We wipe the blade

Put it back in our pocket

There is always a way out

That gives us comfort

We like the mother of pearl handle 

The weight and slide of the blade

Today we did something important

Tonight we will dream. 

Fairground

Can we go to the fairground

She asks

Of course little Cricket

She claps her hands in glee

We can eat candy floss

Fly down the helter-skelter

And you can drive us in a dodgem car

It will be fun

She goes to grab her coat

Best wait until night time comes

I say

Then we can see the lights

She looks disappointed

As if she is missing something

The big wheel will be alight

You can see it shine 

From miles away

We sit and wait

I remember the smells

From when I was small

Like her

The hot dogs and burning sugar 

It made things feel exciting

Just for a moment

Like the world could be more 

Than darkness and worries

I stand up

The light is dimpsy 

Are you ready

She jumps up

Of course

We are going to the fairground 

And all will be well.

Sonnet

Shall we write a sonnet

She asks

No little Cricket

It is too much like mathematics

And I do not have a head for numbers

Not like him

The light is leaking in through the window

We daydream

Words

Pictures

The art of Wonderland 

The falling rain 

Splits and breaks our thoughts

We are far away

Today 

There have been many delays

And detours 

To navigate

We hope that once we are passed

The wreckage

Our thoughts 

Will become clearer 

It is all part of the journey

The adventure

She claps her hands in glee

Picks up a pencil

And starts to write our sonnet

It will be magical she declares.

Journal

Do you remember when 

We used to write our story

My story

I whisper

The words came

Before you came to help me

She settles in beside me

I remember the pages 

Beautiful white sheets

Filled up with black letters

And skin

People were important then too

They made the pages 

Hard to imagine that 

Every day I had something to write

You were dying 

She ventures

That makes the pen flow

The pages were important 

I remember the weight and smell

Of each journal 

Heavy and putrid

Full and satisfying 

A record

Evidence

What happened to them 

She asks

She knows the answer

But I tell her

I threw them all away

Burnt a few pages too

That was magical 

An adventure that led

To different words

Our story 

She says

And I hold her

In agreement

This is our journal now. 

Vote

We raised our hand

And cast the first vote

The choice felt blissful

Something held close

To our chest

We accounted for 

Margins of error

Of which there were plenty 

Counted our options

Made sense of the matter

Stood back and took a wider view

Of course there were 

Sides to play

We were not alone in voting

We were part of the lever

The change

The force

The power

When it came to the final vote 

The decision hardly mattered

We were there

We played our part

Whispers and giggles

Drifting on the wind

Lifting up the ticker tape

Letting it fall in our hair like confetti

A celebration 

And a stand.