Poetry

For prompt 148 at the Magpie Tales, a repost. [](/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/andy-magee-homeward.jpg) Though tears like a river course down like rain, And your heart by cupid’s fiery barbs is rent. Although your cracked voice breaks out in wails, And hell with all its fury and fiends seem sent. Be still, Stay strong, you’ll make it home. Though fear like a cloak your mind enshrouds, And rabid voices, your reasoning besiege. Though Night descends, your dreams to hound, And heart beats resonate to a symphony of rage. Be still, Stay strong, you’ll make it home. ...

For Prompt #145 at the Magpie Tales, and PawPaw, who left too soon. His broken memory no longer can relate to her gentle touch- Or the quiet reassurance of her gnarled fingers atop his wrinkled skin. Or the long faded recollection of the taste of smoked bush meat chased down his thirsty throat by frothy cups of sweet palm wine. He no longer can remember the smell- of moth balls – hanging like a pall, around her clothes a wispy cloud driven out from before the eastward Sun as it streaks across the sky. But the dirty red chair constant like the sun remains- a signpost to a past he can no longer reach A place where once Upon a Life there was a love And a bond so strong Though he barely remembers He still can't quite forget

Delirium, for the We Write Poems prompt Osmosis; You catch her eye on the corner of King's and Guild's, rush of bright pink, blush. Gaze, furtive. A coy smile works its way across her face, before she disappears. A bird, startled as by a twig snapped underneath the lumbering feet of her unwary hunter- Half dream, half mirage, half stolen, garbled- fairy tale. You feel the fever- dry skin, throbbing head. Unrequited memory like the force of a hammer against rock, a blunt axe, Patagonian rosewood, a caged bird, tethered to it's roost. Your siren's sung- her half song, half lure. And like five bowstrings plucked till worn- all you have is the unsated thirst of your delirium.

For the prompt Breakfast at the Magpie Tales Breakfast, 1921, Fernand Leger hold your head- steady between your hands; bow your head as though in supplication- and let the strong, sweet scent slowly wafting up- hit you. see your face- faint silhouette, three day stubble, matted hair- and tired eyes reflected in the cup and bow in reverence to its quickening power. wrap your hands around its base and feel the warmth. drink deep, swirl it's dregs in your mouth's backparts and let the waves of unfettered joy course through your veins give in - and kneel in full surrender to the joy of your dark, black cup.

For the prompts Far far landing on We Write Poems and Mag 130 on the Magpie tales the distance claimed you - seven rivers, seven valleys and seven mountains too. fuzzy memories,shadows wrapped around browned skin - like a caul - hide you; till like a distant shimmering mirage you fade into the space where sky meets earth and where like a pilgrim I have been drawn by the call of the muezzin. the old women by the river tell tales- of muttered blessings of redemption, and of rebirths where like butterflies shedding their cocoons we may arise in peace on that far flung, far far landing.

For the prompt at Magpie Tales. I couldn’t shake the impression of distance from my mind (he is looking in her direction, whilst she is looking into the distance) A Dinner Table at Night, 1884, John Singer Sargent There is silence here - There is fear, and the dense Stultifying pall of hurt- and of memories unresolved. I have been here before- On the cusp of this uncharted Sea, tottering on the edge Of this yawning chasm, willing Myself like a puppet on a string To not tip over, to not Be swallowed up in the flames Of the Sango death ritual; Like a mannequin sinks- Weighed down by a necklace Of milestones - into the depths Of a cold calm sea. Water drops glistening In the subtle shade of red lamps, Wine shimmering in the barely there light Cannot fade the gloom; And in her eyes as she looks away For one last time Is the cold detached lost-ness Of a tomorrow that will never be.

in the space above your head I see his face- And the memory of The us that once was Floods back, In a moment. I see his eyes And the glee And I recognise Like the inevitable cold sweat of a bad night’s dream that we have leapt across the edge of the river of no return If I had the chance To tell you one last thing I might tell a tale Of a thousand parts Or sing a song To cast a spell so Time would stand still Or maybe silence May be all there is To see and be.

For the prompt Strange Bedfellows at Sunday Scribblings: Stuck in the middle, Between the Me I used to be, And the Me I want to be, Is the Me I am now. And like perfect strangers - Waking up in the same bed After a liquor doused night and debauchery to forget, They can’t relate To just how different They really are.

There is treading water. And then there is lostness and the bland, depressing sameness, of everything. There are bad night’s dreams. And then there are visions of the night - in which one writhes and like a knotted string snarled back upon itself one- finds himself at the self same starting point. In the beat of the drums of the delirious priest and the frenzied dance that is our Faustian pact, Hope like a stubborn root - peeks out from between a rock and a hard place. And the unwilling lethargy of a quiescent dawn is forgotten, as it fades like the memory of a quick frolic in the shade of water side palms dies in the heat of a baking desert sun. ...

Source To the woman in the green dress: Oklahoma City, December 24th… She had me between ‘duh’ - and the nonchalant, sultry blur of her unruly hair; and the pouty, smouldering incandescence of her blood red lips; shimmering life-like in the dull, barely there blues and reds and flickering purples of the BeeJay’s mirror ball. We were like two large - lumps of rock; boulders locked in the unwilling, eternal waltz of gravity; stuck in distant orbits around the crowded dance floor like as around a stranded, listless star. In the interludes between the mindless drone of the DJ’s songs, and the rude, insistent scratch of his beatbox our eyes weave and bob, like corks floating in a sea of ice cold beer. ...