|Friday Flash Fiction||
sunlight lancing feathers
slicing through air
spirit of the plains
soaring and diving
almost, out of sight
possesses the sky
as she spirals
framed at the limit
of the world
that freeze-frame emotion
at the edge of reality
The silver birch collapsed in the night:
it must have creaked and groaned
with its mighty death rattle
toppled by a howling winter gale
as I was lost in the land of dreams.
In the morn the wind was no longer wild
but the silver birch I climbed as a child
lay slumped on the rain-soaked grass.
It narrowly avoided the greenhouse
and will have to stay, I cannot lift it away.
The ghost of a young boy sheds a tear
but the weather does not care.
Yes, the old silver birch fell in the night,
a giant carcass...a most forlorn sight.
They first came to stay
but quite ok
they made me cry
forced me to lie
they are shouting
squeezing, in my brain
They even have a plan
they've got knives too
The voices, in my head...
Near a quiet house
Blondie breaks the glass
'Get the party started'
a chair gets smashed
porridge on kitchen floor
Blondie sprays her tag
Jumping on beds
muddy boots and weed
Mr & Mrs Bayer (and baby)
won't be pleased!
I stroll past the Animal Wall
and through the West Gate of Bute Park
relieved to escape half-term crowds.
The Gorsedd Stones are in shade
but although it's only late February
there are petals of pink and white
on the alluring cherry blossom trees,
daffodils dance a waltz in the soft breeze.
It's the warmest February day in history
with the blue Taff reflecting the sky,
joggers, dog-walkers are out in force
and families enjoying picnics but later
the gothic castle will stare through the trees
at a magical carpet of frost
to confuse nature in the ghostly night
and melt to shine as if stars in the light.
Faltering steps on ice
clumsy, timid, testing
patterns cut glass
Mouse fur hat
bobs as she glides
spinning in arabesque
Swan Lake sequence
a private pond
in a Scottish winter
faster and faster
timing the snow flakes
against the chill
velvet collared coat
red pearl-back mittens
pleated tartan skirt
pirouettes on the turn
circling into herself
decreasing, yet increasing
a gyroscopic toy
in a frozen wood
When my mood is at low-tide
my thoughts turn to the young woman
in a wheelchair who knew
that everyday might well be her last.
Yet her spirit soared
like a white eagle in a northern sky,
her body has gone but she did not die
and on this fine day at the edge of spring
I feel her spirit in the daffodils
and in the roses of the church path.
She is my inspiration,
her soul shines like the morning dew
reminding us how transient we are,
each one shining...like a miniature star.
The mist drifts
in wraiths of moisture
caressing cold stone
pausing as if
gossip was its mission
The spire disappearing
into the ethereal ether
delivers liquid messages
to the almighty
Drifting across the road
wetting leaf and shrub
dissolving once more
on missions unknown
Walking in this other world
is a non-existence
is this what
death feels like
seeking relative comfort
in the world of life
Shadows of cars
pass in a grey wash
adding to the mix
exhaust fumes and mist
turning the streets
into dream-like memories...
It is only mid-February
but already the soil awakes:
fully formed daffodils wave,
sun burning gold into the woods.
The almond tree blossom has bloomed,
white petals dancing to the ground below
when winter grass should don a coat of snow
yet it is the robin I admire the most,
its head moving swiftly to and fro
displaying a rotund rusty breast.
People relax outside a country pub
with the grim storms quite forgotten.
I watch the robin as it flickers away
in a balmy breeze...that belongs to May.
I'm thinking I'm sinking
while thinking of you
I'm sinking and thinking
admiring the view
I'm sinking and thinking
of less bodily mieu
I'm thinking of sinking
while sinking from view
If I was less sinking
I'd think more of you...
They found it
at the bottom
of the fire-escape
While in the room
with the wind blown drapes
The Prince is dead
Detectives twitch their noses
the coachman hides feathers
in his pocket
An airport taxi disgorges
its hurried departure
two brass shell cases
on the seat...
We were in silent mode and like a cancer it spread,
An abyss appeared and consumed us with our silence,
Once the young, carefree us disappeared,
A time when words were not needed.
Then, words were all we had left and we could not find them,
We were lost and there was no way back,
Now, I am old and lonely and sad with, just memories,
I have words now, but you cannot hear them.
I wonder how your life fared, happiness? contentment?
Photo's old and battered, smiles, laughter, just memories,
Always in my head, always in my heart.
Can you see the world
in a raindrop
through a prism
A lasered view
no parallax error
a cosmic distance ladder
making planets microscopic
small as a galaxy
in a drop of water
Russian dolls standing in a row,
a gift from a loved one many years ago.
At the moment the sun paints them gold
from the tiny child to the father.
I remember, I remember, twisting each one,
placing them on the ledge in the bedroom,
a once magical place, now like a tomb.
I prefer to forget the bitter arguments
recalling with fondness Saturday mornings,
sun caresssing her yellow locks.
Oh, how fortunate we do not know
what callous fate has in store.
Russian dolls standing in a row,
a gift from a loved one...many years ago.
They no longer tell me stories
they don't invite me to the fire
they left me to borrow soil
no-one is to hold me again
no-one will scrape my bread
no-one can return me whole
a torch-lit pattern
scraped and spooned
offering to the tribe of man
a stone memory..
I’d known something was wrong
even before opening the door.
There was a formality to his stance
hat politely in hand
buttons glistening in the rain.
Shivered goosebumps on my skin.
The uniform told its story before his words.
In the chill, my heart lagged a beat
behind the snore of night.
The world slumbered, unawares.
thus I switch
I carefully stroll through the gates
and under the arch of the old Norman church,
tombs and fir trees adorned with white
on this bitter early February morning.
A magpie creates a transient flurry
as the sun paints diamonds into the snow
perhaps watched by those reposing below.
There's not a living soul visible
as I study the inscriptions:
some have been weathered away
and a cross has fallen like a tree,
no flowers here, it lies quite forgot.
I think of all those who've walked through such snow,
the world such a different place long ago.
The old broom head
like an elongated hedgehog
stoppers the rickety driftwood gate.
The shingle path
winds its way through
the garden tumbling to the river’s edge.
The tree house
bereft of children’s play
majestically awaits the next generation.
sweetens suspended time.
I feel ashamed, pathetic,
fretting about my petty woes
on Holocaust Memorial Day.
Almost 80 years ago
the devil ruled in Europe:
trains which had been used to transport cattle
groaned and screeched with an awful death rattle.
There was no food and just a bowl
as a toilet for the desperate people
crammed so tightly they could only stand.
An elegant finger pointed the way
to either the chamber of horror
where poison gas robbed the victims of breath
or work at the camp...a living death.
We were damaged,
like parcels all worn away at the edges.
with brown tape,
all curled up.
We smoked roll ups.
Sipped pints of cider
in pubs with no name and
unpacked each other.
We flew to Amsterdam,
saw ‘Sunflowers’ in Van Gogh’s museum
We Ate green Thai,
all dressed up.
We bought our own place.
Derek Jarman’s garden moved us
to plant seeds,
This is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though. Just submit them using the submissions Storybox.