Tuesday, June 29, 2010


my grips are in garbage bags.

I'm tired of throwing dreams out.
the only thing that gets collected
on mornings,
is dust,
skinning teal-coloured plastic.

They would always come back
stare you still,
and spill empathy
from air-tight recall.
like the begining of a breath,
short but pronounced,
and there in every pull.

one suitcase will
not allow room
for so many things.
can't store anymore problems
in this closing space,

nomads trace their leaving
behind them.


Of things eyes brighten over.
but comes daylight with a drag
less tug, more escorting.
easy walk from smiles,
to less crooked lips
straight to the point,
rushed goodbyes
and kissed sores.

I'm in no hurry
for bitterness.
For dried salt streamed
like tribal marks,
buried into my cheeks.
these eyes are marble
and flint and opal.
with no last words,
only better hopes.

Arielle John copyright © 2010

Monday, June 14, 2010


That will teach faith to have self-worth again,
Remind trust how to believe in itself
Lend light to sulking mornings,
And baffle a whole lot of people.

All I have left,
is a handful of promises,
a heartful of hopes.
and it's all I have left.

copyyright © 2010 Arielle John.