I paint and write: the same instinct for structure, in another medium.
Five poems, first posted on Instagram.
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poems
Sascha Roae
five, typed
The pen mimics a compass The microphone is just a prop You want me to enunciate? Ahh, now I get it. You think I exist in the space But my voice never sits at the table It speaks from the window, looking in. So you hear the difference now? The wall only breaks from outside looking in
The bell rang clear when the helioscope spun to 88 An alarm gathered their eyes to come near For each one wanted a turn to get the sun to an ear As they stood, the pens wrote instructions Then dropped their badges and made way to a concession Desks left empty as the out tray was unattended Phones ringing without hands to bother with an answer the last one took the stand and waited to see A blue streak gliding behind the western peak He stood waiting for his instructions, but instead was told to swap the badge for a broom His calling: keep the lights on For the arrival of the second sun.
When did the cycle demand forever? When the leaves turn, the rain breaks into snow, or the trees fall without labour? I’ll surrender if they can answer; Why does the cycle demand what it can’t sustain forever?
I wish you well I'll borrow your stories that gave me any smile and cherish the ones that felt every tear as the road carves out paths I leave the ribbon at the fork for any traveller walking near good luck with the climb of the snowy peak this terrain remains at the base of the mountain
10 steps granted to the body called small Agreed to blindly by a man big and tall A flag shown as an end does its part Surely his stride flattens the head start Endless days mark the race’s nature Imprints stamped into every acre The man loudly protests When does the end let him rest
more poems, and the paintings
behind them, on Instagram
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