amidst purple, grey
eyes match her hair & mirror
the smile on pink lips
eyes match her hair & mirror
the smile on pink lips
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You're tasting someone else's death
as you bite down on pain and blood not quite dried by cooking, And you grind life's final scream before you drown someone else's agony in alcohol. Get drunk Stay drunk. You know what you have done. Abetting murder just for fun.  A Yorkshire lass called Beryl Burton
cycled not for money but love of the sport earning nothing from all those gruelling miles yet winning 90 British and 7 world titles. She held a full-time job working at a rhubarb farm but cycling should have brought her a great fame and yet today few remember her name. As a child she was diagnosed with an irregular heart beat and advised never to exercise. At the young age of 58 she died from heart failure on her bike, perhaps how she would have wanted to leave. Yes, cycling should have brought her a great fame yet today...few remember her name. Pluck a tail feather here and there
use each plume to write a poem record fantastical battles on high where good and bad angel wings flutter with similar momentum, Gabriel blows horns & azure skies darken exploding in lightning’s brazen bolts; it’s been so long since religious training I’ve forgotten Genesis & which creation myth detailed divisions between fiery ones, cherubim, archangels, or morning stars…, blind evolution in a state of grace, recalling beatific pinions clashing—angelic violence humans have aped for millennia. “Ask & you shall be given,” the man started saying.
“Try and you shall win,” he went on. “Because... “By trying, you learn and you wizen-up! “A thousand miles’ journey starts with a step. Kudos Chepkorir-for courageously saying, “I CAN,” And kudos for boldly walking a desolate path. “May you be a shining star, up in the sky! May your subjects rejoice in your shadows; And may generations to come, get inspired by you! “We wish you well, wholesomely, my dear. We pray that you find a shackle-less-mentor; Your Shepherd and guide through ‘that den’ to its end. “‘Hongera Mhesh Linet!’ as you rattle that hornets’ nest, As you fearlessly shake it up, a lill! And Hongera... As you awaken all the slumbering Young Adults!” “Amen!” I muttered, watching him walk away. He who can, does; He who cannot, teaches. He who cannot teach ... Still teaches. As a former teacher, I've claimed the right to add something to this – ed. Post Scriptum, by Gordon LawrieHe who can, writes;
He who cannot, edits. He who can neither write nor edit Criticises. As old as I am,
at this time and era, i still look up-skywards! As young as I am, at this age and time, i still rejoice and hope! As free as I am, at this liberal; free-space, i still write and rhyme! As moonlit as tonight, at this hour and power, i still love and behold us! As peaceful as now, at this place and location, i still trust and cherish Moonshine!  The young woman stands and smiles
in a sunflower heart-shaped arch. The flowers all peer towards the east and behind lie the glorious cliffs of Worm's Head on the Atlantic ocean and for once there is joy etched on her face because gloom doesn't belong in this place on a somnolent sunny August day sunflowers in the field swaying in the breeze, a little piece of Nirvana. But all beauty is transient, they'll wither, but not just yet and all her troubles melt like morning dew feeling overwhelmed by the gorgeous view. Oh goodly planet earth
What are we humans lacking Of what is there such a dearth That we just keep on fracking. We bite into your crust With our eternal lust Searching for ever more power To wastefully devour Your precious life giving resource All destroyed without remorse There's always hope we'll see the light Meanwhile forgive us for our short sight. A dream was dreaming herself
right beside me on the pillow It lay next to my head as a cube of colours cross sectioned but not cut laid bare though not hurting So intensely stained by saffron and amber was she, that in that moment, i knew i knew everything Alongside my sleeping head the dream ran soundlessly on and from these ordinary scenes came answers to problems long held, and solutions found And thus assured that i had found my place within this twisting, turning fractal world in preparation i began to pack tea-chests, filling them with coloured crockery. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any poems – writers appreciate it.
Just at the moment, though, we're moderating some of them so there might be a slight delat before they appear. 
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September 2024
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