Two Poems by G J. Hart

 

How Things Begin

How I marvelled that day 

at a mind that would never 

think to mention those

rows of gold lining the 

fence as within, your heart 

sprung like flowers 

from a sleeve.

But gradually it faded -

those tiny birds you wove

into curtains and migraines -

and for all the universe's

incalculable pace, 

this morning is cautious -

moves through bamboo 

one paw at a time - 

So I pull one of your cracked

pots from weeds, 

push a finger into soil

and drop a seed - twenty

years compacted 

into its soft, shining shell -

I will wind your wild 

green clock.

Morning Run

 

Not bleeding

with the finding

of diamonds - no tigers

or troops - pitched like a copter's

snout as the storm's first

birds arrive -

 

and London's

glove is rigged

with pick tongued

birds and toothless

flowers  - lay gold at Tuesday's

feet - Monday's not drinking up -

 

it whites the red bus

windows whilst my home

overflows, high on the mist's

low light.

 

I move past people

cracked and I am fearless.

The past is my password.

G J. Hart currently lives and works in London and has had work published in Isacoustic, Nine Muses Poetry, The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, The Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.