this wintry spring
brightens to summer...
‘Happy Birthday’
brightens to summer...
‘Happy Birthday’
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Imagine a wolf with a sheep’s knapsack,
slinging unearned privilege. Slinking, toe tipping. Not one to rush to pillage. Picture chickens sneering at the sheep who left the knapsack within wolf’s reach. Yet the wolf is unaware that she has it and the sheep thinks she took it on merit. On the road of dreams
I yearn for your gentle kiss in the cool spring night I play with wordy magic, creating something new,
I made an action happen and wish it to be true. When I make people love, love pours through my own veins, And when it comes to hate, my hate will cause me pains. My laughter will echo stuck between the pages, The sorrow I wrote in would rest there through the ages. The good soul and the bad guy, I’ll tangle them together, They will fight their battle no shorter than forever. I’ll make night everlasting, the sun will mean my hope, And every single trouble must be a slippery slope. I might just make you bleed or wander down to hell, But when it comes to ending, I’ll make sure all ends well. Verdant grass has transformed to white,
fallen golden leaves sparkle as if with diamonds as frost melts under a November sun. The heavens are a rich azure and the gods have painted streaks of white, my breath drifting like the mist rolling on the empty golf course, pond not yet cold enough to freeze. Magpies glide and a crow squawks as surprised motorists scrape ice away but I'm pleased for the welcome respite from dreary wind and rain content to stroll in the autumnal air and for a short while with barely a care. Yellowstone on Stan
a cavoodle growls and barks at all the horses Seattle baths & bedrooms in the projects
smelled of sweat, raw sex & toilet water cheaper than musk oil or French perfume the perfect combination of glandular action & wish fulfillment blended into a singular bouquet that lingered like a nasal ear worm—impossible to lose-- filled disquieting dreams with a haunting odor that permeated nighttime’s veil & slumbering retreats. particularly daylight hours, where it followed dawn employment like a wet mangy dog, wafting though Amazon workhouses, soup kitchens, & religious sanctuaries where alternative misfits sat lockstep in pews, shared collective social alienation, mainstreamed flannel shirts & ripped jeans, sang in choirs to dirty guitars, honored Neil Young—the godfather of grunge. How I wish I could have two Editor's Choices this week – Ed World Cup in Qatar
Best players under the sun Morals in gutter 7 minutes past 4 is the time
she always wakes, wide-eyed, trapped in the soft tomb of her bed wet with sweat whatever the weather intrusive thoughts poisoning her synapses. People cannot understand why she is this way, she's young and beautiful not old and grey and the more she tries to think herself better the worse she feels and only wine can touch the sides, numbing the pain she knows she should not experience yet still dons her mask for the day ahead, smiles to the world but alluring eyes show the anguish in her soul...that will not go. turn the black vinyl wheel
to carry me away back to the past or spin two magic reels inside this dusty plastic shell just to hear again the songs we all loved then you can ask me how does it feel to be the fearless traveller through strange spaces and times springtime warmth
swift parrots in the bottlebrush call rising through the spirals of the body
circling up towards the gatehouse retreating from the farthest outposts toes. shin bones, long bones belly, thorax, voice box small bird flapping ever upwards to the skull cage briefly perching behind the brow awaiting the moment to take the sky. What if I
were to tell you the Complete Works of Shakespeare was a map to an ancient treasure... And the island made of oak in Nova Scotia is where the mystery lies... Editor's Choice  I strolled through the Black Tower gate
to a field where poppies were laid on wooden crosses, an elderly couple planted one with sombre expressions. One read "Died for Peace. Thankyou" and another "Lost at Sea. SS Bibury." I cannot imagine their awful fear as the ship sunk with eternity near. From more recent conflicts were photographs of young warriors in their prime, a poignant reminder of the horror of war as children laughed thankfully unaware of tragedy as they climbed the Keep, a squirrel scurried equally oblivious. The breeze blew ghosts on this November day over crosses of those who'd passed away. restless, (w)reckless, pheromone inspired
hunger beyond (bio)logical imperative to (pro)create (a)new connection flood of touch speaking flesh to Void primordial however-gendered passion, pleasure, (con)sensual surrender swoon surpassing the ordered world Pi the same for every circle, encompassing the (W)hole obscenely sacramental sacrifice required, tantric mantra of the Big O(m) euphoric loss of self, immortal little death, proliferation incarnate Lovers do lie upon tectonic plates they slip and slide the tides of ages, of fluids spent below the thin red jellies of skin and bone, continents shift and on and on the lovers drift Old hut near the sea
a pair of ragged sandals waiting by the door Imaginary worlds, the fantasy we have
head in the clouds- lovely to escape to, but don’t, not in the face of sorrow, real-world pain address your emotions, the bad and ugly If Rapunzel hadn’t cried at Flynn’s death he wouldn’t have been saved, if Rapunzel daydreamed about his survival, instead of facing her fears, then She won’t be having a real happily ever after. Someone made a poor decision
And the people doth protest - Not about the price of fuel Or the job cuts that have left Them with no income And a paucity of grub... No! Someone withdrew the Bounty From the Celebrations Tub! An engine on two wheels feels heavy
when hefted or held between denim knees, but glides with ease and rides steady when the throttle slips a tease of speed. Bigger the bore, more the torque, and faster the vector flows. Yet the size of wheel between the fork isn’t always measure of the road one goes. Off-road, on-tour or blurring the trees. Living the moment, being in the scene. |
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. 
Archives
November 2024
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