Ad Astra (To The Stars)

Short Story - The Project

2011-12-31T13:31:00.000Z

Too long to be a #fridayflash! :)

When I first met Alistair, he had the moon on a stick, or so it seemed. He held it above me one summer’s night, by the lakeside and told me he wanted to make films someday. We were fifteen, and I believed he might. He talked of Hitchcock and Hollywood…Beverley Hills…and the stars began to spin…the angels sang… …anything seemed possible and infinitely better than here.

We married as soon as we were able, Alistair and I, two months after my eighteenth birthday, in a rush before I started to show. My mother wasn’t happy…she’d wanted me to marry the son of a family friend. He was going to university, to be a doctor, and he’d always liked me, she said. I was a silly girl. Alistair was going to the ‘university of life’ I told her (in his words of course!)…you didn’t need an education if you wanted to create art. You just needed inspiration, and there was no better source of inspiration than being in love.

Fifty years, thousands of miles, and a small family later, I look at Alistair across a smoke-filled room, pipe hanging from the corner of sour, wet lips, and it’s hard to believe his smile had once held so much promise. Glazed and watery blue-grey eyes and too many ornaments, glare back at me, aimlessly, barely piercing the space between us. Alistair never did make films…he made sounds for films…or rather, he edited them after the Foley artists created them. And even that was too much for him in the end.

Shortly after we married, Alistair got a job at small, independent studio in Berkshire. They made art house movies, mostly horror, and I recall he came home from the interview all excited. Those cobalt eyes that had hooked me on the river bank, were still twinkling with the fever of youthful enthusiasm:

“It’s only in the recording studio Suzy, but I got it! I got it! We’re on our way…first step to Hollywood baby…” And why not? I was excited too, it really did seem he had his foot in the door now and the only way was up. Screw my mother, what did she know?

Our daughter was born in the summer of ‘61, and after that, my time became consumed with her. I was young and motherhood was all-encompassing. I kept house, I cooked and cared…a contented, if somewhat harassed, model wife. I prided myself on that, but it meant I had less time to notice Alistair. He came and went back and forth to work, as all good husbands should. He said the pursuit of his art shouldn’t make him careless, and we started paying a mortgage on a little terraced house. We struggled, but Alistair shoved a decent amount of housekeeping money into my hand every Friday, and walked to work so we didn’t have to go without meat any day of the week. He kissed me on the cheek every morning as he left our bed, and he spent the weekends with Eloise and I in the park or at the boating lake. We seemed happy.

I asked Alistair about work sometimes when he came home tense or quiet, but he rarely liked to discuss it. ‘Stress’ he said…it was very ‘stressful’ working with all those horror sounds, screams and thwacks and bone crunches…the kind of movies I didn’t like to watch, and we’d never want Eloise to see. I asked about Hollywood sometimes too…when Eloise started to walk, but Alistair said it wasn’t so easy as he’d thought…it might take a few years…then he rubbed his temples. I quieted down…it wasn’t a wife’s place back then to pry into her husband’s work, and it seemed to make it harder for him when I did. I just assumed I’d have to wait a little longer for the dream.

It wasn’t really until our son was born, in ’64, that I began to realise we weren’t going to Hollywood. I got Eloise into the local nursery school, and the second time round I was a little older and much more relaxed; a baby didn’t seem such hard work. I focused a little on Alistair then. I felt we’d disconnected while the children were being born and I didn’t know much about his life away from home. Maybe I’d been wrong about prying and I was the reason he hadn’t been promoted, perhaps I’d been unsupportive of his career. I resolved to try harder and began to ask him on an evening: “How was work?”

Alistair didn’t seem to like it. “Fine”, he’d say, tersely, his tone very closed. “Stressful.” I tried hard to be sympathetic, offered to listen, but Alistair rarely said much. Except in his sleep. He often made the sounds of his trade in his dreams, waking me at 3am with a witch’s cackle or a high-pitched scream. I raised the noises once at the breakfast table, but no matter how many times I asked him about it, Alistair didn’t seem to hear me. He just read his Sunday paper intently…until his hearing returned when I offered him a cup of tea and some toast.

I let it go, but when our son was around six months old, Alistair began to make a sound in his sleep I’d never heard before. It was a low, pitiful screaming, almost a bellow, as though something large were moaning in pain at the end of a long, narrow pipe. There were several sounds in the nocturnal catalogue that I was used to hearing…most of them I had even starting to sleep through, but I had never heard anything like this. I didn’t know much about Foley editing, or what Alistair really did at work, but this sound played in his dreams over and over, like a vinyl record that had got stuck on the needle and kept jumping back.

Around the same time, Alistair started buying pictures and models of elephants for the house. He liked them, he said. It reminded him of ‘The Project’, and kept his brain working on it when he got home from work. It was very important, he insisted, worth a lot of money if he could get it right, so I went along with it for a little while.

Alistair called all his elephants ‘Topsy’, and I wasn’t allowed to touch or clean them. When he came home with the 42^nd elephant, I lost my temper and pressed him for more answers, they were cluttering up the window sills – what would the neighbours think? Before he lost his temper and struck me in the side of the head, Alistair said something about Edison’s film and a Foley sound he just couldn’t get right.

The final straw came one Saturday afternoon when I took the children into town. Alistair said he wasn’t coming…he was pretty sure he was close to resolving ‘The Project’ and he wanted to make some notes while the house was quiet. I wasn’t surprised, he rarely went anywhere with us by that time. When he wasn’t at work, he preferred to stay at home with the ‘Topsies’.

The children and I returned only hours later to a street full of fire engines and a special sort of ambulance at the curb. It appeared Alistair had attempted to wire all the ‘Topsies’ together and plug them into the mains. His eyes met mine as uniformed men led him into the back of the large white van, and I had never seen them look so dead.

“We made it Suze!” he declared, soot streaking his face and his hair on end like those photographs you see of Albert Einstein in science books. “I’ve got Topsy’s scream sorted! We’re off to Hollywood!”

We didn’t go to Hollywood. Alistair was committed to a mental health institution in rural Berkshire where I visited him year on year. There was never any improvement in his condition, and I kept the children away for their own sake. Shortly after his committal Alistair began making the low, bellowing noise he had once only uttered in his sleep, for hours throughout the day as well.

It later emerged through conversation with his colleagues and various therapies and shock treatments, that he had been working for over a year on the Foley sound edit for a clip of Edison’s 1903 film of the electrocution of Topsy, a rogue elephant on Coney Island who had killed three of her handlers. Alistair had spent hours every day in his editing studio, watching the clip on loop and ordering and reordering the sound of the elephant’s dying scream to be recorded by the Foley artists. It seems the sound of an elephant being electrocuted was notoriously difficult to make, and nothing had ever seemed to synchronise with the film or sound close to real. It had driven him to distraction, poor lamb.

I always felt for Alistair…he was an impassioned man and he suffered for his art. I continued to visit him, even after the doctor my mother had wanted me to marry had divorced his wife. Fifty years later and remarried (…living in LA as a matter of fact…Silicone Valley…Robert moved into cosmetic surgery…) I still come to see Alistair once a year. I bring him another elephant ornament for his room. These days it’s the only thing that makes him smile and brings the cobalt-blue back into his eyes.

#Fridayflash - Old Photos

2011-12-31T13:05:00.006Z

Inspired by a Leeds Savage Club Writers' Meeting Task of the same title:

Time holds out her hand to touch me and I knock it away, old photographs spread out on the carpet before me.

I order them: before…and after. Two boxes lie marked and labelled, waiting to be filled.

In the oldest pictures, I notice, we are always smiling. Ever grinning and excited, we hold hands beside a camel in Egypt (when it was still exotic to go to Egypt), and pull silly Flamenco poses beneath an arch of flowers in Spain. And then there’s you…on that beach in…oh where was it now? Who cares? You’re wearing that orange bikini you had in ’73, and despite the sun on the sea and the years, you’re still the only thing shining for miles…

* * *

I open another of the paper wallets and she smiles back at me from an early 80’s matt finish; a 10 x 8. Her eyes still startle me like the first time I saw them, such a beautiful, vivid green, and my heartbeat falters, the way it did the first time I held her. The corners of the picture are rounded, like they used to be back then. It makes the image softer somehow, and I realise, I miss that in the sharper, later ones, when the corners get square again and he starts to appear, sometimes, beside her.

As time goes on and the photos get glossy, the colours get brighter, and it seems they are always together…though I recall it became more difficult ever to catch them so.

The pictures of us have different expressions now…we look tired sometimes, vaguely anxious…the occasional one has us stern or angry…but mostly, we still smile – the biggest, gentlest smiles of joy, and pride…and a love like we’d never known.

These photographs I place in the box I have marked: ‘The Kids’. The others, in the box marked: ‘Us’. Perhaps one day, the kids will want to meet us. For now I look forward to Sunday lunches, and the two sets of green eyes, like their mother’s, that meet mine across the dining table again.

Crawl To Me

2011-12-28T14:51:00.002Z

Crawl to me; to my island;

through the gentle thorns,
that scratch , and scrape, and so
tenderly claw, at your naked
soul and your crouching form,
only as I do, in passion and faith;

lay before me and offer

profound grace, and all the places
the fallen ones
have longed to take; to drag
with them as they
tumble down, to sully their white
wings on burnished,
charred ground, to tint them
grey, as they roll
in the soot and the fire,
let them cry out with pain
of unsated desire,
for evil, as I turn off the lights;

as I blow out the candles

to reveal holy night and cast
your demons away;
crawl to me, my love, and bring
me your day, to lay at my
altar of dreams,
and I will worship each sacrifice
as it creeps
forth
from the chains of your heart;
and use them to cover
all of the stars, whilst I make you
glow
in the dark.

Fire

2011-12-28T12:02:00.000Z

I sat and watched

the rain
when you were gone,
and thought how I make you
tremble with want and need
and desire to be
the width of a hair
closer
to me and to heaven and
to angel-song, and all the ways
that is right,
and sacred,
and wrong,
and true,
and the ways I tempt and honour
you, and bring tears to your eyes with
forbidden fruit and words of
tender, honest hues
from the rainbows
that we paint together,
to sleep amongst
and dream of never, and always...and
the fire we make;
how beautiful its dancing flames
and embers
can glow and leap…
...if you rub us together
like two branches of trees in a
dry and quiet place,
where a spark can ignite,
and consume a soul,
with a wondrous depth
of grace...

Madding Monday

2011-10-08T18:36:00.002+01:00

(This one's my 'Boiler Poetry' at the moment!)

as the sky crept silver
above the battle
they glanced along a vale
of shining diamonds
their faces twinkling with love's golden ghosts
all was silent
hearts afloat
as a secret host of
memory and disaster,
that most remembered
after the glitter
did eat their puzzled souls away,
fell down upon
the spirit of laughter
and they recalled
their beautiful smiles
the other side
of Madding Monday.

The Contents of the Box

2011-10-08T18:03:00.002+01:00

written for a Leeds Savage Club Writers' Group task of the same title:

We stood together on Saturday morning,
while you drank coffee in my kitchen,
and we unpacked the contents of the box...
I reached in first, past the day-jobs, and the name-tags
and the novelty socks,
and I pulled out that curve in your back,
(the one that someone should tell you about...)
...and I explained its beauty.

We examined it together, its gentle line,
and I counted the notches in your graceful spine,
before you reached in again,
and pulled out my hair and my eyes.
You held them up and showed them to me,
the way that you see them;
you told me to watch the fire dancing;
and to breathe the heaven...

So I pulled out all your points of pleasure,
each line, and scar, without hesitation,
and we unpacked all our blemishes,
with joy and admiration...
You revered the parts that no one sees,
and marvelled at them only as pieces of me, while I worshipped
the damage that makes you, you...
...cuts, and roughness...and dust-dry hands...
all the things that make you a man and ensure you fulfil,
and we agreed, together:
the contents of the box were beautiful.

Hope

2011-10-08T17:47:00.000+01:00

With the world hewed down
to this room
and you,
I can tell you
there is nothing
more beautiful,
than scent
and taste
and familiar grace;
to sit in the firelight and admire
the face of your glory, and
the depth of your smile,
to lean my forehead on yours,
in silence,
...just to hold you a while.

The Broken

2011-10-08T17:33:00.000+01:00

The heart has its reasons,
of which reason
knows nothing...it knows only
that where there is something
to soothe
it cannot be denied...and I confess
I see that something
sometimes
when I look
in your eyes in the evening's
fading dusk-light,
or observe my lion
of the mornings...and I want to caress
and kiss away
the yearnings
of my grounded kite of pink skies,
and catch your every
fluttering emotion like a tender
butterfly held in a net,
or a moth
with wet, and damaged, but
beautiful, wings
that beat the air like a wild
thing unable to break free...
and to tell you that we
can touch, and talk, and be
together
until the dawn...
but still all I will have to give as release
is my heart that answers your silent call...
...and my soul...
and all
that is left...
of me.

The Child in the Tree View Room

2011-10-08T16:57:00.004+01:00

The problem child

had a sky to contend with
outside the window of her tree-view room…mostly
it was a pale
and moonlit view she’d been slowly growing into.
The trees were blue on a harvest night, white
with a star-frost in June,
and the problem child
asked the starlings to save her
drops of the morning’s
frothy dew. More so in May when
the cuckoo’s spit
marked the day break
on the grass;
and then the problem child
would ask
for the sun
to rise a little slower;
she was always the first to know
of a snow shower
that would keep her from school
and to this day
she is still the morning sky’s
fool; from the window of the tree-view room
for a wish
or a dream to keep…
See, the problem child
was rarely asleep; she’d have
missed too much –
the chance to be born
of nature’s
invisible lust
for glory, and counselled by fairies
at the dawn of the world,
to watch a golden-orange rust
creep across her curls, the leaves and seasons;
and the privilege to learn a thousand
early morning reasons
to forget

she should not be up.

Fire

2011-10-08T16:26:00.002+01:00

I sat and watched
the rain
when you were gone,
and thought how I make you
tremble with want and need
and desire to be
the width of a hair
closer
to me and to heaven and
to angel-song, and all the ways
that is right,
and sacred,
and wrong,
and true,
and the ways I tempt and honour
you, bring tears to your eyes with
forbidden fruit and words of
tender, honest hues
from the rainbows
that we paint together,
to sleep amongst
and dream of never, and always...and
the fire we make;
how beautiful its dancing flames
and embers
can glow and leap...
...if you rub us together
like two branches of trees in a
dry and quiet place,
where a spark can ignite,
and consume a soul,
with a wonderous depth
of grace.

Pious

2011-10-04T19:12:00.000+01:00

You should have someone

who feels heaven in your arms,
who calms your spirit
like waves caress sand, who hears only angels
when you growl in pleasure; who measures time
when you wander from her,
who longs,
without rest,
to worship at your altar; to fall on her knees,
to revere,
and adore, to venerate perfection against
the kitchen door…you should have
someone who cannot say ‘no’
who struggles to go and keep mind
on their day, you should fill thoughts
and a heart
in a way no other could dream of…
You should be honoured
and prayers whispered
to your soul,
tasted and bitten and eaten
whole and writhing
‘til you can barely breathe…
…you should go home to a temple and someone
as pious
and holy
as me.

Rapture

2011-06-19T13:44:00.000+01:00

...so I stand here staring,

at a savage moon,
with an angel
on my shoulder, a reminder
of you in my pocket,
a devil’s mask,
taken and drawn
from a lonesome vat of
heaven and silk-light,
flown
like a kite,
in the moment I notice,
that I miss you
tonight, as a grounded yacht
misses
the ocean, and I drive
through the waves to a door
that is open on both sides;
a looking glass;
where I take your hand,
and pull you down
in the grass, to blanket
a stream with tales of the
past and the present and the
yet to come,
with the flames of fever
still red as the sun’s last
passion on a summer’s eve
and I climb to the mountain’s
summit, too lost
in rapture
ever to leave.

The Rosebud

2011-06-18T18:32:00.000+01:00

You told me once,

something in you
was sleeping…and that I
had awoken
some depth of meaning in days
you had forgotten
was there…

Not so, darling,
I simply
set you off dreaming
again,
and helped you remember
how it felt to remain in the freedom of more
open than shut,
to possibility…

…and the more you showed me
all your frailties,
and the deepest scars of your wars,
the more I wanted
just to claw all the bad things off.
I gave you the beauty that you longed
to roll in; and the more I witnessed
something holy,
and beckoning,
grow fertile in your eyes…

So you see,
I didn’t wake you…
only came along,
and pulled off your disguise,
to show the world
the most exquisite truth…

Credit me none, my phoenix,
for what rose (already in bloom)
was all and only
precious,
and beautiful
you.

Invisible Cracks

2011-06-18T15:43:00.001+01:00

Inspired by a Writers' Group Task for the Leeds Savage Club

We try to pretend

it is just the same;
that we look at each other, still,
in that way…
…how we used to,
when we couldn’t
get enough.

We whisper in corners now,
I sigh,
and you huff, and I’m sure
we never did that
before…

But we close our eyes
and draw the curtains,
on things uncertain, untrue,
or exposed;
we wrinkle up our delicate noses,
and ignore the smell of frustration…

for where once we were
love-doctors to all,
in denial,
somehow, we became
the patients.

Rotation

2011-06-17T07:57:00.000+01:00

So I find myself in love

with these open fields
and distant thoughts of the
beautiful steel I’ll ride through them,
some day;
with ever-increasing
open space, emptied,
and evenings filled,
with fire and sevens, and a boneyard of nines,
and all the dove-tailed, gentle time in the world
just to be.

Will you share them with me?
Those nights? Still?
On summer days when the filtered light will fade
more slowly to its rightful place
in your embered eyes.

And will you sit by me then, and smile?
Hold out your hand as you do tonight?
When I am no longer neat,
and tight, and frozen in bloom?
Will my name yet resound
through
the glittering, gaping
chambers of you and our country mile?

When a full rotation of the world has gone by,
and all the stars have lost their shine; like beetles,
on their backs, in the mud,
I wonder,
would you,
will you,
still, make me yours?
Still fight for me through griffins’ claws, and I for you?

I rub the glass now,
fairytale mirror…
show the future; what of
we two?

Heaven Scent

2011-03-20T17:39:00.001Z

I walk away
with your scent on me,
and you’re with me
every
time I breathe…caressing my
skin
and smoothing
my hair…
in my mouth,
on my fingers,
I inhale…
you are there in an instant,
a moment’s dream,
and I know then, you and I,
don’t need
to see. While we have time,
and sunlight,
and freedom,
we can shake off shackles
and dance
into Eden; hand in hand,
and side by side,
blind mice on a slowly, rising ride
of virtue, and demons,
dark roses…and love…wanting
nothing else
but
to watch the soaring,
painted doves
of happiness in familiar eyes;
…and to see them
roll, and twist,
and grace one another’s skies.

#Fridayflash - Missing

2010-11-19T21:10:00.001Z

Inspired by a Leeds Savage Club Writers' Group Task, for which the prompt simply read: 'Writers' Group'.

She pushed her way between the hedge and the gatepost, squeezing by to avoid the tedious effort of the heavy gate. Tonight, air was all she needed.

The fields yawned out before her, with their long shadows and their evening sun, and she heard the faint hum of traffic, on the roads beyond the trees. The world was still out there, but somehow, this was a place where she could barely notice.

It had been warm today. The office had been stuffy and the phones had been hot, and she was tired of being polite. The thoughts had been stirring in her head all day...but she couldn't seem to find a moment to organise them. She knew she had something that needed to be said...to be shared...but she was running out of time. With a conscious effort, she suppressed the conditioned urge to wonder what time it was now...not because she thought she had any more of it, but because it seemed crass to think it mattered here.

The hares in the grass 20 yards away, began to scatter with her stirring footsteps, and she decided to sit, unwilling to disturb them further. She closed her eyes for what felt like a lifetime, and breathed, filling her lungs with air. The scent of the outdoors was like nectar, and it flooded her core, seeping into every , crackling fibre until she felt like a thirsty tulip drinking morning dew. With the sun setting, low on her back, and the soft voice of a lonely cricket chirping somewhere beside her, slowly...finally...she felt her thoughts begin to tumble into place. She sighed, and pulled a battered notebook from the back pocket of her jeans. Hunching over to rest it on her knee, she put her pen to the page, and began to write.

The pen was hasty, confident and sure, and it moved without a pause or a scribble... It was just as she'd thought. This was something that needed to be said, and it almost wrote itself.

She was so engrossed, scratching frantically at the paper, that she barely noticed when he sat down beside her. He had to touch her unoccupied hand, lightly, to alert her to his presence, and she turned her head, dipping it gently against his as a greeting. It was the very briefest of tender gestures, before she resumed her task. Her thoughts had taken so long to be coherent that she was now unwilling to disturb them, and despite his being there, she steadfastly completed her mission.

It didn't surprise her that he waited in silence, shifting only slightly as he stroked his thumb over the empty space on her wedding finger. He knew her well enough by now not to speak when he found her here.

"When you were late," he said, eventually, as she laid her notebook in the grass, "I knew I'd find you here."

She turned to him then, eyeing the finger he was stroking with painful regret, before she met his eyes.

"I'm sorry..." she frowned. "I know I should have called. It's just...with what happened this morning, I suppose I've felt lost all day. I couldn't get things straight in my head...the words wouldn't come. I just...I really needed some air." He nodded, acceptingly...always accepting...his eyebrows knitting a little, as he tried to understand her world.

"And do you have them straight now?"

She smiled sadly.

"Yes, I think I do."

"Can I see?" She turned to the notebook and smoothly tore out the page...there were other things in there that she wasn't ready to show him yet. Folding the paper twice so it fit in her palm, she pressed it gently into his. She didn't watch him unfold it, and got up to pace, nervously, as he read:

Missing

I miss you today,

like water,

like rain,

that harnessed and poured on,

swept away the only beacon that has ever

truly retained the most treasured

moments

of my life - remembered for me

our mornings, my dreams,

our nights - heated and love-drunk; tender circle

of fire it seems I only pay note to

when I feel that it

is lacking.

And here

the knife

twists now,

withdrawing and plunging back in,

for I have only regrets...

of where my apathy greeted and met my

wantoness

and I lost you...

...I lost you through nothing

but inattention, and my own carelessness.

"So what do you think?" She finally asked, when he stood up and wandered over to join her. "It's the Writers' Group Open Mic tonight and I wanted to have something to read...but I think I've left it too late, haven't I? I've rushed it...it needs more work...?"

"No," he smiled, "you haven't...and it doesn't. I think it's perfect, beautiful...I think you're beautiful!" He pushed the paper back into her hand. "Go. Please." He told her. "Read it. They'll love you."

"Perhaps," she smiled, feeling suddenly and uncharacteristically shy, "but I think you're biased on that front. And besides...what will you do tonight? ...If I go?"

"Me?" he smirked and pulled her close to kiss her forehead. "I'm going to take the U-bend off, darling... You're not the only one who misses your ring, you know!"

Etchings

2010-11-09T20:28:00.001Z

If I stay,
I stay not
for requests that repeat,
but for want and longing
of the times we shall meet again for an hour
in twilight or rain,
and retreat to our sanctuary
of darkness ingrained on our hearts
and imprinted on souls,
where joys and comforts and truths
are told in the moments
when we don’t speak at all,
until our lives and our consciences
call us
back to the world
and we go in the knowledge,
that our cocktails of words
and touches, and our dreams
of the stars,
are creating most exquisite
and permanent scars that time
can never erase. And if I tell you I honour
your etchings with grace,
it is likewise honest, and true as the phases
of the constant moon,
and whispered for one reason,
and that reason alone:
Because I wanted to.

Re Vera (In Truth)

2010-11-09T20:22:00.000Z

Who is anyone
but you or I
to question our constants,
our tainted reasons
to lie about time,
and wherever we have been
when most days
these moments with angels,
are needed,
just to breathe?
And surely
our methods
to heal
one another,
belong
to none but us;
for when we call
on the world
to grant that deafening hush,
and bring down the seasons
to soothe heartaches and groans, we know
we have bared
the depths of our souls,
been down inside one another,
and back,
seen where we are warm,
and swum where we
are black, and sullied, and yet,
still
we look to one another, with truth,
and say:
‘beautiful’.

Perhaps

2010-11-09T20:17:00.000Z

How do I begin
to consider
what you see,
if you lay eyes, or breath,
or hands,
on me?

Surely, I can only
echo
your words…and
know that you love
my
untamed world and say perhaps,
that you see a soul
that answers yours
without notion to call out harshly
and ever roughen a moment
that whispers to your heart such quiet
and golden nuggets of gentle song,
that you ask me to stay
ever longer, as the light slowly creeps from day,
and you ask me to smile for you and to lay down
in grass,
to follow you and share a glass of heaven,
or beauty, in wet air and dew…and I
can only suppose that maybe you see things
in me
that keep you near;

perhaps you hear a language
you understand
when you walk at my side or touch
my hand to your waiting lips;
perhaps you are only taking welcome
sips of my medicine that seems to cure…
either way you see my doors are always open,
fences down,
and I welcome you in to drown, like an addict
at the bar who throws off disguise,
willing to catch you whenever you fall,
like the stars I hold in my eyes.

Night-Drunk

2010-11-09T00:04:00.000Z

Drink with me;
come,
draw the curtains,
and close down the world.
Know
only
this…

nothing is more certain than
the morning light
the dawning brightness of
the waning night we will slowly
leave behind.
for we have
only hours now;
less time,
than ever we could
find
before.

Lie down; let us draw now
from the bleeding bottle
beside us
on the floor; forget the glasses;
and listen
as each
breath passes our wounded throats,
and we throw out our
ballast like stricken
U-boats; half sunken
on the edge of the world;
curled all around
one another
like tender stalks
of over-grown
clover
for protection
and comfort against
tomorrow…

for if we only refuse
to see it; or hollowly bear witness
to the gentle rising of the sun,
and if we loyally
beg the moon to stay,
then surely day
- and surely cold,
hard clarity -
can never come.

Lullaby In Glass

2010-11-08T23:54:00.000Z

I’ve opened the wine
...to wish you here…
close your eyes and you
can be near and help me drink it;
help me sink
down into it, while we only
sit
and dream;
and you play
beautiful
music for me,
all night,
beneath the gleaming stars…
...it is simply our
secret balm
for all those
invisible scars,
and surely, a lullaby,
with sweetness and strength enough
to drown out any
rough or harsh regrets
we have foolishly let
set into
our souls
and there keep us
from sleep.

Miles

2010-11-08T23:45:00.000Z

Tell me all the ways
you want to make me yours;
all the parts of me you want to
whisper to,
adore, and possess.
Come and question every
single
breath
I take when I am near you.

Come and touch me
like a broken arrow,
like an eagle’s wing in flight,
lift me up and force
my soul to sing aloud and give life
to yours.
Come and lay me
on the kitchen
floor and take
all those parts you named
before with caresses and smiles
in the smoky night.

Come ignite a raging flame of desire
on ice cold ceramic tiles…
I
surrender
now – take me with you -
and I will walk, or run,
or crawl
the thousand miles across your desert
to kiss you.

Rain Bathing

2010-11-08T23:36:00.000Z

Mostly I’m laid
on my back, you know,
as I watch the sky roll over;
and I listen
to the drums
with a beer-bottle on my chest.
It tries its level best, I think, to take
these
raindrops
and cast them from me
into forever,
never asking if there is better,
yet to come or still
to be,

and it hums its way inside of me,
to soothe when I promise it kisses
and I let its wet blessings
caress my sun-touched skin,
until it sinks its gentle claws in,
changing and curling
my feathered wings
that feel
there has been
eternity
since they were allowed to fly.

So I close my weary eyes, and sigh,
as I lay back; the water’s feast,
and I suppose that I am thankful,
for the splashes on my brow
(and the taste on my tongue)
and the shivers in the cold
at least.

Comfort of Friends

2010-11-08T23:31:00.001Z

Some things mend
without needles,
or thread…
…but simply with words,
or gentle forehead-kisses,
…or the knitted fingers
of friends…

The aches and stabs
of life,
they lend themselves
so well
to the cure
of this enchanted brew...

…and knowing only
the beauty
of that…
I gladly lend myself
to you.

Letter

2010-11-08T23:26:00.000Z

You ask me silently
how far
I will let you fall
before you break,
and how far
I might ever go
away…
for although you say nothing, I
see questions below
your surface
that beg me, answer them.

But your answers, my friend, are
like the wind
on which we ride, as winged
horses or fireflies,
across moonlit lakes and misty
skies, with our lives on our backs…

Your answers are dreams, my darling,
- torture racks –
worth no more than the carpet
tacks that make up
your secret bed of nails. And so,
the truth is,
I will let you fall and flail, for eternity,
for where is the harm in wanting
nothing from me?
Where is the foul in comfort and glory,
and in time…and friendship…
immortal?

This much
is important…

…I will stay forever…

…if it only
makes you smile.

Sharing Stars

2010-10-05T21:09:00.001+01:00

You whisper, “stay with me,”
beneath the falling stars
all the others
come to know
as rain;
“peel me like an onion,
shelter me,
lay me open”
you say…

then we talk one another
down to earth and grains
of sand and stones and grass
‘til we are filthy and wet, like horses,
muddy and writhing
on beautiful backs
with only clay to cover
our scars and our stains
when we draw forth stories of a future
of glass, the tarred and honeyed, glistening past,
and distant tomorrow’s fast kisses and you hear me say:

“are you more, or less,
a dreamer today than you were
when you promised
yourself
‘forever’?”
And I stay;
I stay just
as I told you I would
and together we touch
elusive freedom, and grace,
fingers stretched through the grey sky and rain,
then dragged;
wide open again;
across trembling, willing souls,
carving out a precious refuge,
a hole, into which we crawl,
whenever we
have need of treasure
or the sky begins to fall.

Due to be read at the Leeds Savage Club Writers' Meeting, 06.10.10

Two Truths

2010-08-30T22:57:00.001+01:00

These two truths
have always been,
equal,
open,
self-evident
to me:
…all things change,
and everybody leaves…
…eventually.

So while I have you here,
for as long as you’ll
stay
and with no one else
but the waning day, and
the lengthening clouds to hear;
the evening’s rabbits and
lowing cows, as they gather
at the gate; while you and I
have nothing awaiting our attention;
nothing to do
to speak of
or to mention above
in passing;
let me get around to asking now,
who it is that you
really are?

And if you tell me,
as the sun goes down;
I promise only the stars
will be around to
really take note…

Well…
them and I who will listen
at your throat
and whisper
back
in your ear;
soft breeze stirring your hair
and your precious soul til you can barely stand…
And,
somewhere,
in all of this,
I will tell you too,
who it is
that I really am…

And it will not matter
if we are honest,
for we
may only be a summer long.

Missing

2010-08-30T22:51:00.001+01:00

It is not that I lament
this solitude
nor look on it
with ingratitude for that which I
still have…but they
are cruel spirits who giveth
sweet liberty
with one hand
only then
to taketh away…

It rained today…like needles before the sun
came out;
but without a doubt, there could be
no streaking colours
painted for me
across a grey canvas sky…
for I
could not share them
or hold them,
still closer,
or ever tighter and golden
yet, with you…

and as life chewed at me
and gnawed my bones
and my flesh and
aching soul
I wanted nothing more,
right then, nothing less,
than not to travel,
and to breathe, and think
like fire,
all alone. And I wanted
not to miss you
and a time,
and a circumstance
I have come to know as home among
small hours
that I have leave
sometimes
to call my own.

Most Beautiful

2010-08-30T22:44:00.001+01:00

Walk with me,
for we have not depths
that the lyrics would have us believe
we
live
only
in this gentle stream and the merry dusk-light
floating wild
like crimson kites, against a humid sky.

And we need
no more to survive, than this
our own heaven created,
indeed, no more,
than this nature incarnate,
and just to be.

And so we answer, “walk with me,
come,
lie down in the grass,”
cut off the shackles of present,
and past and cherish that unworldly crash
inside
as we go free
for here is where
you and I are seen, at our most beautiful.

Thoughts on Becoming Thoughtless

2010-08-05T21:22:00.001+01:00

There is calm serenity,
or so they tell me,
in accepting inevitability
quite sedately…

One should not howl,
or question, they said.
One should not pound one’s
cursed, confused head,
but stop, take stock,
and plan one’s sessions,
of lethal lead poisons,
meant
to leak,
amongst my bones.

And one should not try to own
that pain
which could be layered out,
for family gains.
One must not care more
for one’s own fate
than that of suffering others.

One must, of course,
be…smothered,
in sad dignity.
One must not get lost
in health’s infidelity.

But here inside,
lies the truth,
of indemnity,
as I see with my own eyes.

One is becoming
Thoughtless,
long before one’s charted time.

One became diseased today.
It is happening anyway,
so why should one not
seek to say
all that has not passed
my cloudless, acutely conscious
and unmerry way?

It is not my choice;
this cruellest of jokes. But
for all one’s hopes
and plans and dreamscapes,
the escape,
I conclude,
(for you) as well as I,
is as random as love.

And I was always more lover, than fighter.
Now, more frightened
of the fight, than anything other.

Take cover, friend. You didn’t see that coming?
Well no, why on earth would you?
The world chooses who
will stay
and who goes out.

It is a basket piled high with woes.
A tale of the final horrors and throes,
you all shall see.

My mother will surely cry for me,
when I am gone.
But what of it?

Come death and welcome,
for clearly, some bastard lord of fate
would have it so.

Inspired by my grandfather, who died of cancer, and my mother who is suffering from MND.

Bird

2010-08-05T21:08:00.001+01:00

Fashion me from straw and cut me,
please,
right down to size
for I have been anything
but wise amongst these days of late.
I have been but
a taste of many things,
most of them without the wings and halos
you’ve come to expect…yet
I’ve still grown those golden
flecks,
in my down,
that the sun breeds just
the same,
and I could live in a metal
cage,
in the lounge,
for all your friends
to prod and touch at the end
of warm nights –
with clipped feathers and a stunted
flight, they can marvel
at my plumage…and I’m sure
they’ll pay you homage,
for a genuine, fantastic choice.

Trapped Heat

2010-08-05T21:03:00.000+01:00

Listen well,
for I want to tell you
of a minute's worth of empty heat.
And I want for you to feel
all
that I have need and
tender hopes for.

These are things
I would have closed doors for,
and forgotten,
some very little time past,
if only to remind myself
that I should never have asked for,
- or deserved - ,
them better.

But the truth is, I'm as changeable now,
as ever,
as fickle as the weather, or the angels and these devils
that sit upon my shoulders,
and what is more, well capable, of hearing the songs
of both,
of rolling my own boulders
from the cavern's mouth,
...of letting myself out,
and promising her the world.

Home

2010-08-05T20:54:00.000+01:00

My sunsets of pale ochre
glisten
on the waters of stolen time
that is no more
to some;
- unfathomably -
than a heathen, empty waste.
Have those who mock it
never tasted
what is true and blessed beauty,
after summer's baking heat
lays out
all grounded graces
on the surface of rain-soaked earth?

Have they never breathed
what mustard scent, caresses
mornings and bathes the sun's descent
on acrid, almost-August days? Have they never
begged a friend to stay and witness
a miracle
play out before their eyes? Never thrown off
feigned disguise and
laid themselves
bare
among wet grass? Never asked
to just be left there
with all that it is,
alone?

Tell me...
where do those,
who have not lived at all,
call home?

Let's Pretend...

2010-08-05T20:35:00.000+01:00

Do you want to pretend
that the moths are fireflies?
That the areoplanes are meteorites, or shooting
stars in the dark
night sky, above our heads
as we lie on crushed glass? Do you want to ask for
a lonely wish to be granted? For a hopeless
dream to be almost answered
by these tail-lights
and beacons right now?

Or shall we not speak at all?
How about we just lie here
and stop
falling through these long days of life? Stop fighting
these sunrise-knights and their flaming torches
and the skull-aching torture
of this knowing insight...
Let's exist forever instead
inside the silence of dark
and the glow of twilight,
between the dawn and the
yawning evening plight of a sinking sun,

and we'll never endure another day, not a
single, vicious one - for we'll rise only
with moonlight and gentle stardust, to live
among the closed
and sleeping flowers,
and we'll dance away all
our beautiful hours, like ghosts,
without a care
or a worry undue...

Hush, be still...close your eyes...
take my hand...
We are there...
it is truth.

For a friend in need of a dream...

Lullaby on a Knife Edge

2010-08-01T00:13:00.002+01:00

These empty nights,
and tedious days…
it seems he only ever
now promised
to change. And it used to be
she loved his star,
no matter what it’s shape.

It turned out
she had peeled him,
like an orange over the years,
and only then
because he’d let her take,
every last ounce of sparkling grace, and make it
pass
for life.
And her beak fell sharper now
than the edge
of the knife he slept on
when I found him.

He told me then,
I was a sacred fountain;
that I made roses of nails,
that I put wind in tattered
sails and insisted he speed
towards dreams.
But I was just me.
And I told
the truth
in his eyes, that he should
see no more
than soothing stories,
as I wound my fingers
at his temples and he gloried in my golden sighs.

“Tell me just one more
lullaby,” he pleaded, and I caressed his neck,
as I talked of never
going back,
of being here always,
together
and free;
and whispered things that barely seemed
a hair, or a breath,
out of reach or sight…

…but I sent him home, night after night,
with an aching heart and a yearning soul
in fledgling flight…

- because I had to -

and somehow,
I hoped it cushioned the slicing,
and the sharpness
of the edge
of the knife.

In Words

2010-07-06T23:51:00.002+01:00

So…
put it into words, he says,
and for my life, I cannot begin
to describe such
sweet
sin, such guilt,
such pleasure as lies,
in these
stolen moments
of sublime
which perhaps
we treasure where we shouldn’t.

But surely the rest of the world
wouldn’t know
or understand,
that to walk simply,
hand in hand with
silence,
one must first
speak it aloud –
to a kindred spirit,
to a fellow wandering
cloud who longs to be free, who sees
all
unearthly beauty,
in rain walks and holy ground mist
and listens
only,
when the horses speak.

A tribute to the draw of the serenity & freedom to be found on horseback.

Don't Wake Me

2010-06-24T23:44:00.000+01:00

"Look," she points,
to the sky,
and the trees,
and her smile breaks out
in truth
and freedom...
but they can only see
a field.

"Just lie here," she sighs,
on the wind
with her back in the grass
and the fairy-king,
- like a horseshoe,
glittering -
and dancing,
in her hair.

And she lets as much
time pass
as she dare,
before she wonders: "Do you hear that?"
And the whole world looks
straight at her,
as if she were nothing less
than a black hole
on the edge of space
and she laughs across
the sunlit plain;
she giggles, like the stream and says,
"If I dream now,
don't you wake me...

to save the world,

for the end of days,

please;
don't ever wake me."

Rievaulx

2010-06-20T22:34:00.004+01:00

Good day, old friend, it's been

some time,
but like one
gone
almost blind, I feel I am home;
for your stones have owned, moments,

of my

prolific life

without question or promise

of warm

safe nights or moral comfort...

...and I have always known,
your walls
had eyes.

You remind me now
as I sit on your carvings
of basest cravings long fulfilled;

you recall heaven

spilled in sunshine, on stone,
and things and hands long since cast from
my bones, and as I
trace my fingers on your
crumbling face
my own reddens for a lack
of restraint, in what was once,
holy space,

and I lick my lips and mouth

that name
and remember how we sullied
your tunneled drains.

Our backs to your sand, as the
swallows
flew over,
surrounded by moss and daisies
and clover, with filthy water
at our feet...
I see,
only now,

- the first time I have been here since -

that as beautiful
as we thought
our act of defiance,
and freedom,
to be,
our supposed, sublime serenity
(and imposition)
was nothing here -
for it could not compete
with thee.

Written on a Leeds Savage Club Sketchers' Excursion to the stunning ruins of Rievaulx Abbey, North Yorkshire... ...the first time I had been here since! ;-)

Dream of the Hungry Heart

2010-06-20T22:14:00.001+01:00

So you and I,
we talked about this before...
about what is and isn't
formed, in a fleeting instant.
And I guess now, all
we have to go on, is instinct,
and it will become
about those stories
I tell
to soothe you to sleep.

And as always,
you will say to me;
"keep talking,"
long after
you've begun to weep
for all the freedom
in the dream I mention;
for the purple stars and the big,
white stallions, we'd ride there instead of cars,
instead of trains
and noise
and painful life,
and I've told you all you have to do,
is take my hand and dive,
head-long
into tomorrow,
for I have borrowed a parachute,
to catch you
when you fall;

and I know I'll be beside you,
if you do...
for today, I find myself without you
and I miss
your heart's hungry call.

Inspired by a friend who taught me that I don't have a monopoly on dreams! :)

Beyond the Bedroom

2010-06-20T21:33:00.001+01:00

So I wonder why
it gets
this way, when there’s talk of nothing
but maybe and days
that seem to last
forever without touching,
without seeking
and seeing, and clutching at snatched moments
of instant satiation. And I cannot tell you it’s different
to the basest things
offered by creation,
for there are few
noble reasons,
I feel need to be near to you. There are few moments
where anything is due but general,
mutual
appreciation
of beauty
and pleasure,
of fate and desire,
of lovers, and liars, and of
this tiny furnace,
that seems ever
to burn in me.

Shut your eyes now.
Do you not see what is bare
and ugly truth?
It is all for want of having you,
and for bitterness when I do not.
It is all for a watched
kitchen clock that has never
struck past eight. It is all for the nights you were hours
late or never there,
for a watched phone that didn’t ring,
and the love songs you promised
but didn’t sing, if indeed
they were ever written…

…suddenly it looks very fitting,
(in its jumps and starts),
that pulling away, you should seem to me
not whole,
but as several
glowing
parts.

The Life of a Woman

2010-06-20T01:21:00.001+01:00

(From Genesis to Deuteronomy)

See here, woman, how thou art unclean
of flesh, and all living wickedness art in thee,
but still, see, how thou art loved the same
and made as one with man,
made from him, no less,
born of earth and rib in Genesis,
as daughters have rights of sons.
See how thou art done well, by an honourable
God, despite thy vileness and thy sin?
See how thou didst begin in all deceit and gore?

See also how the mighty law protects thee
and defiles thee,
see how thou art free and guided
into chains. For thou shalt not kill, woman,
but thou shall be maimed
for thy whoring, and thy adultery…
…lest, of course,
thou be guilty…or be not.
And no sons wilst thou have begot
‘less in pain and misery, for thou deservest,
as the one who yeildeth first unto the serpent, and led men astray -
thus shalt thou crawl ever as he,
upon thy belly all your days.
And men shall be as angels yet, in My image,
to rule upon you for all’s sake.

The Gateway

2010-06-16T00:36:00.000+01:00

The screech of the gate now,
fitted her mood,
for she could not rid herself of you,
and she found she was screaming
right on queue
for there was no more falling left to do.

In putting the unholy threshold through,
she had nothing but scars now
on fragile hands
that bent and folded to your every demand
that rolled over and bled upon command
and she could not care
much less
if she were damned
forever
for her part in this.

She threw back her head then
and welcomed your kiss,
though she knew it meant nothing but death –
beginnings and ends were both met
in a single, sweeping taste…

she trailed her fingers across your face
and left her perfume there –
stuck,
like black smoke,
to your skin
and hair.

And the screeching of the gate resounded,
like the sound
of lobster
in a boiling pot…

…to call
these
waters
‘hot’ was not nearly fair…

…by far the gravest danger
was that;
to kill or be killed;
for reward of you,
she dare.

#Fridayflash - Unbeaten

2010-05-30T20:42:00.000+01:00

She had been leaning on the fence for a while when she finally felt him approach her. Alissa sighed with relief…she’d been waiting for him, and somehow, he always knew that.

Despite her terrible mood, she found she rolled her neck and tipped her head back, welcoming the sensation of his breath in her hair. She smiled as the warm, humid breeze, stirred her dark curls. How on earth did he do that? She surely had nothing to smile about now… Well…nothing but him.

He stepped a little closer, chest pressed against her back now, and made no sound when he laid his cheek to her temple. Alissa felt him breathe against her, his chest swell and fall, and it was almost as though he breathed his strength right through her. Standing got suddenly easier as she reached to bury her fingers in the hair behind his ear. He was warm and safe and solid, and it didn’t take words to tell her why he had come. He was offering understanding… He knew exactly how this felt.

He pressed his chin into her shoulder then, comforting her, and returned her sigh as Alissa squeezed her eyes shut, wiping her tears. The bruise around her left eye, stung, from the flowing salt…but there was nothing left to cry for. Whatsoever she had lost, she still had him… And he knew her like no one else could; he listened to her very thoughts, trusted her with his life…and she trusted him with hers. It was so much more than she could ever say for Steven.

Alissa turned to face him then, and cupped his velvet nose in her hands.

“I want a divorce, Othello.” She told the great, black horse. “That’s the last time that man lays hands on you or I.”

Islands

2010-05-20T22:10:00.001+01:00

It’s 3am,
on a concrete island,
and you’re holding my hand
like the devil’s claw
as the lights swirl on a heated
floor of tarmac,
blacker
than coal
and you’re saying now
how you
can’t bear to let me go.

“So please,
don’t.”
I tell you,
“come,
follow me home,
we’ll pretend we’ve never
known
how very wrong
this is.”

Then you close your eyes and tell me,
mind my business,
because,
you have so much
loss to think about,
and love to worry for,
that you
can do without my
many flaws and failings at your door.

And then,
without games,
or warnings or more,
the wind slowly mixes
with the grimy earth
in the morning’s breaking dew,
and it joins
with my wandering soul,
as I cough up the taste of you,
on my tongue,
and make my way home
through the barbed wire,
denying any left
over morsels of desire that linger
yet.

And suddenly, saying ‘goodbye’ in the road,
on a traffic island,
seems as fitting as it gets.

Not quite a #fridayflash, but a story, nonetheless... :)

The Leeds Savage Club E-Book - Now Available for Free Download!

2010-05-17T00:34:00.002+01:00

As many of you will already know, I am the current Press Officer for the Leeds Savage Club, a society for writers and artists in the District of Leeds and the surrounding area of beautiful West Yorkshire, in the north of England, UK.

Yesterday, the Leeds Savage Club launched their very first e-book...and not only is it FREE to download, and bursting with no less than 55 pages of stories and poems by our very talented writers (including uber-modest moi!), but there are also 59 images of brilliant artwork by our amazing sketchers.

Below is a portrait of myself (and Lydia, the horse I ride!) by Steve James, a founding member of the Leeds Savage Club and a long-term member of the sketchers' group - it's just a taster of the level of aptitude and ability you can expect to find in our publication... and of course, it's just to tease you...just to lure you in...'cause if you want to see (and read!) more, well...you're just going to have to download A Very Savage Affair, here, aren't you?

The Farmer’s Boy

2010-05-09T20:31:00.004+01:00

Inspired by tales of my dad's early childhood with his sister, on a Lincolnshire farm worked by their father and uncle. As a boy, my dad believed he would probably inherit the farm, but dreamed of broader horizons & someday living in the 'big house' instead!

You drove me insane,
you know?
Like twisted poles
on a carousel,
at a neighbouring county fair. And every time
I requested horizons
you were upright,
and standing there, in the road,
like a scarecrow,
with his arms
wavering in the breeze – you were ragged,
and always ready to leave, just as soon
as you had come.

And I remember the horses
in the fields were dun, and red
as apples in the setting suns
of nether-worlds we’d never see.
And we skipped across the golden barley
like flat stones
on surface water,
ever a contented son and daughter, of trees,
and of the cross-beams
that stretched along the barn.

And there was nothing like summer
sun farmed,
for best butter and cakes in the pantry,
and a dozen heifer-calves
raised by an aunty in the crew-yard
out the back; an uncle who slept on potato sacks,
on the steps of the tractor shed;
and a tilly-lamp lighting
our way to bed to dream of more wonderful days,
when we’d look to the big,
house on the hill,
for the will to grow
up and be,
lord and lady of all we surveyed.

My father's sister, Vivienne Maxine Taylor, was killed in a farming accident, aged 9. This poem is dedicated to her memory.

Needless to say, the farm was sold. My father never did inherit...nor does he live in the 'big house'!

What It Was

2010-05-09T20:19:00.001+01:00

I have the taste of you
inside of me
and we keep talking
like we ever shall be able
to say
it is just the same
today, as it has always been,
forsooth.

But the truth is…
I want
to pull
it out;
that taste on my tongue
that seems only so wrong
as the instance it was
almost right. And so
I give you now
just one
more night of bitter lemons,
for it is surely only
the bells
of St. Helen’s church
that chime
their death knoll
for us;

and so we whisper loudly across the bay:
“Only let it be
what it was.”

Complicated?

2010-05-01T21:09:00.002+01:00

So
you’re all smoke
and mirrors,
are you?
Well there’s something
I don’t
believe –
come over here and sit, I’ll show you
you’re not so complicated
as you like
to think.

You want the same things
that the rest of us do,
it’s just that foolish,
valiant
you, would rather be brave;
would rather be
misery’s slave, would rather no one
ever says what is really
on your mind and written
right across your face
in those
big
black
letters –
upper
case…

Forget grace and dignity!
What about faith
and liberty and all
the natural calls of your fevered heart?
I see
through
that part of you that wants
only
to hide,
and I listen like a seashell to
the voice you have inside your armour plate -
I want you to hear now
that it’s okay
to laugh, to feel, and to lie about
the truth
and to need
- like air -
the very same things
as I do.

Mirror

2010-05-01T19:45:00.001+01:00

Come out from behind
that smoke of yours
and I’m standing before a mirror
of me
and it’s been such a long time
since I have seen
myself
that I wonder all about the shelves I somehow
find I sit beneath,
choking, oh so quietly,
upon the dust that gathers,
as a sheep’s-fleece would,
around my feet.

I feel I’ve been walking
ever so long…
and yet,
I recall,
you searched for me once.
it was around the time I stopped
for lunch, on a blanket
made of dirt,
laid cold
upon aching earth,
in the glory of a setting sun.

And the dirt was running
through my hair that day
but it was the filth in my mouth that made
you stay and stand
and claw
at all the pretty words being spoken
about hunters’ eyes like yours.

“Throw open the windows, then”
I said,
“…and the doors,
…and we’ll let the smoke out,

for there is no question
anymore,
you are my mirror
without a doubt.”

#Fridayflash - Thrills

2010-04-10T12:16:00.001+01:00

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?!” he said, staring at her incredulously, over the top of his sunglasses as they waited for the lights to change. Martin’s leather-gloved hands gripped the steering wheel of the low sports car a little harder in irritation. “You’re doing it again!”

Felicity was slow to respond. She dragged her eyes, lazily, from the buttocks of a workman who was filling a pothole outside the passenger window. She frowned, as though Martin had been rude to interrupt her.

“What..? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She said, half-heartedly…and quite obviously aware of exactly what he was talking about.

“Oh, Flick, please, don’t try to be cute!” Martin said tersely, biting out his words. “It doesn’t suit you. Just put your damn tongue in, will you?!” Felicity’s mouth fell open in stunned disbelief and she felt her skin bristle with annoyance.

“Well! I am sorry, darling…” she feigned sweetness, rolling her eyes. “I hadn’t realised how much you dislike it when I admire something pretty.”

Martin ignored her, trying to be dignified…but as he pulled away from the lights with gusto, the revving of the powerful engine betrayed him.

“At least I only admire things…” Flick continued, deliberately provoking. “I mean…when they’re not mine… I don’t just go and take them…I’m not like you…”

“Flick…” Martin finally bit the hook. “That’s different! You can’t start complaining about that now! You knew what I was like when you met me…I’ve never lied to you. And let’s face it, you don’t exactly refuse the benefits I bring home, do you?”

“Maybe not…,” she smirked wickedly for a moment. “I’ll admit it, I do enjoy those… But I could live without them, Martin. The problem is, I really don’t think you could…and someday, your luck’s gonna run out. You won’t always be this young and in demand, you know!”

“Maybe I won’t…” he replied, pulling the car into the mouth of an industrial estate. “And then, maybe I’ll try and live without this…but would you really want that now? I’d be bored and grouchy all the time, Flick! I need the excitement…the danger! I have to have the thrills, the variety, or it’s like I can’t breathe!” He sighed heavily at the sight of her sceptical frown. “Please…don’t look at me like that! It’s just what makes me tick, that’s all. I don’t do it to upset you, Flick…I do it because I need to. I’m not me without it…and if the truth be known, you wouldn’t be you either.”

Martin pulled the car against the curb outside what looked like an empty warehouse. Felicity raised an eyebrow at him when he reached for the door handle.

“We’re not done here.” She said, pointedly.

“Just stay in the car,” he told her. “I’ll only be a minute.”

Watching Martin disappear into the warehouse, Felicity considered the things he’d said. It was true, she had always known, and she really did like the benefits of his ‘danger’ and ‘excitement’. Martin was always so wired afterwards…he literally came alive! But she wasn’t always sure it was worth it. Lately, Flick seemed constantly worried. Every time Martin left the house, her thoughts were consumed with where he was…and what he was doing! Someday she wanted to settle down, have a family…and they’d never be able to do that whilst he was still so…wild!

A knock on the window beside her, jolted Flick from her silent frustration. Martin smiled at her through the glass…a beam that lit the air around him and filled it with electric sparks. She found her own mouth twitching involuntarily as he waved a stuffed brown envelope at her, and his dark eyes grew luminous…

“C’mon! C’mon, get out!” he panted, pulling the door open. “Quick!” Flick stood up out of the low, sleek car and into Martin’s radiating cloud of exhilaration. Her eyes were fixed on the envelope.

“They’re gonna take her?!” She tried, and failed, to push down her own glee as her stomach flipped with anticipation. “How much?”

“Of course they’re gonna take her! Look at her, Flick! I’ve got great taste in other people’s cars!”

“Martin! How much?!” Felicity reached for the envelope, but he pulled it back, stuffing it into his pocket.

“£23,000!” He hissed, leaning to kiss her mouth, hurriedly. “Not bad for a day’s work, eh?” Flick caught the back of his neck, and pressed his lips to hers in a longer, heated assault. It left them both breathless, toes curling…not bad indeed! God, she loved him like this! It was contagious!

“Just wait ‘til I get you home,” she gasped, dragging her nails slowly between his shoulder blades. “…I’ve just remembered how much I love those…benefits!”

“Home?!” Martin grinned, teasing and sexy. “Oh honey…now you’ll just have to be patient! I work nine to five…I’m still at the office!” Felicity let him take her hand and started running…

“Quick!” he told her. “We’ve got a bus to catch…there’s a business conference in town…and apparently, the hotel has a hell of a car park!”

Felicity picked up her pace…just a couple more couldn’t hurt.

Knock Twice

2010-04-06T01:30:00.001+01:00

You’re looking at me
from behind smoke and mirrors,
across a crowded bar that rarely delivers,
and I have never seen
more beauty
than this
in my clouded wake.

I have never regretted
a right decision made
in virtuous foolishness,
then preached without truth,
than the one I made
on a bar stool
with you inches from me,
like an unread book…

…and there are moments, I think,
you shouldn’t look at me
like that,
but the second it is gone, God knows,
I want it back, and front, and upside down,
and inwards and backwards, and I beg you,
lay me down on that guilty pyre,
for we’ve known it
ever so long,
we’re just dragging it out like the
chorus of a song and a dance, with too much
repetition, not enough
variation,
and I lied,
I want you,
every way in creation of man
and of woman from him…

…so ask me again, with that same, damned longing,
and knock twice…my stolen sin,
for this time,
I will surely let you in.

Bewitched

2010-04-02T16:49:00.001+01:00

Take notes or something…
I’m working dark magic here;
some irresistible kind of heartbeat
that will draw
all innocents
near unto the flames
and the torrid, dark fires of Hell.

And if you dare to tell on me,
…you mark my words -
be sure to tread
carefully…for Lucifer himself
will surely fly
as frightened birds
caught
in a washing line, thrashing
and turning
and beating his wings,
and will bring all manner of unspeakable
things unto thee.

No.
You shall, of course,
protect me
and my heathen fairy-soup…
until it can be bottled and fed
to you - and make you mine
forever more.

Until then, remain, soldier at my door –
a sentry only for me,
bound there and bonded, unable to leave,
for an unspoken spell of bewitchment on ye…

…and who would have thought it?
Least of all me. For this
sorceress
didn’t need
to do a thing.

#Fridayflash - Ladies Who Lunch

2010-03-25T22:27:00.001Z

“How is your vanilla slice, Lucie?”

Evangeline tried hard not to sneer, as she tucked into her fruit salad with a dainty fork. It wasn’t as though Lucie had scope to be eating a cream cake…she was at least four pounds heavy in the hips!

“Oh, it’s wonderful, Evie!” Lucie declared with genuine enthusiasm, blissfully oblivious to the sly glances and smirks that passed between her companions. “Simply delicious! You girls really ought to treat yourselves now and again!”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Evangeline smiled, though there was nothing pleasant about it. “I’m watching my figure…image is everything these days, isn’t it? And I wouldn’t want to show Daniel up at the next charity ball by looking a porker in my gown, now would I?!”

Jessica snickered at the thinly veiled insult, but Lucie seemed yet to be ignorant.

“I don’t eat dairy…” Jessica smirked, in an effort to confound Evie’s subtle nastiness. “It plays havoc with your skin tone…and, apparently, foreigners can smell you if you’ve consumed anything containing milk proteins! Stinks to high heaven, so they say! Just imagine…if Matthew’s overseas clients could smell me at dinner?! I would simply die of shame!”

“Smell you?!” Lucie looked thoroughly amused and entirely sceptical. “Jess, that’s ridiculous! It’s like thinking all French people smell of garlic!” Lucie’s delight in the notion’s absurdity bubbled over, and she gave a hearty chuckle. The other women around the lunch table grimaced notably at Lucie’s frivolous, tinkling tones – her laugh was too loud, too crass…and it illustrated just one more way that she didn’t fit in to their world.

Lucie had married Richard last year…and everyone had been against it. There was simply no denying, the woman was from the wrong side of town!

Richard had clearly been smitten from day one…brainwashed, some might say… Lucie was so incredibly real, he’d asserted when he met her, suddenly strangely enthusiastic, his gusto rivalling that of a teenage boy. She was free – and totally unlike anyone he’d met before. Lucie did just as she pleased…was totally honest, and never apologised for being herself…

But everyone else could see, the marriage had obviously benefited Lucie far more than it aided Richard – he had got himself a shameful wife…a genuine disgrace, who wore inappropriate, short dresses at every occasion and never had the right thing to say. Lucie had earned herself a small fortune overnight…not to mention that gigantic country house in Hampshire! Oh yes…Lucie was very ‘new money’…and goodness, it showed!

Lunch, to Lucie, was about ordering the most expensive cream cakes, and drinking too much champagne.

“Let your hair down, girls!” she’d say, and have Evangeline and Jessica cringing, as she talked too loudly, ate too much food, and had the whole restaurant looking their way. Lucie simply couldn’t see that class and decorum were about less, not more…but less, in the most…well…respectable way possible. For the money Lucie paid for champagne and cream fancies, Evie and Jess could drink a £40 bottle of Appalachian spring water and eat organic rocket and crayfish salads – with no dressing, of course. Now that was classy…

With Lucie’s laughter reaching a crescendo, the women made their usual, untrue excuses, and left the Wednesday lunch in various executive models of Range Rover.

As she tottered to her own Barbie-pink version, on too-high Jimmy Choos, and watched Evie and Jess climb into matching, sleek-black examples, Lucie felt her diamond-studded Blackberry vibrating in the pocket of her designer jeans. As she worked the device out of the tight denim on her hip, she wondered which department store bathroom Evie and Jess would stop at on their way home, to purge what little lunch they had eaten.

Although Lucie knew how they felt about her…rude and loud, an embarrassment…she couldn’t help but feel sorry for these women. Evie and Jess were raised in this world, where nothing was expected of them but decorum, beauty and unconditional support for their husbands…so long as they were rich and successful, of course. Evie and Jess had never had the chance to know who they really were or what they liked.

Lucie read the message on her Blackberry. It was Matthew…again. It seemed Richard’s business partner was developing something of a liking for her. Poor Jess… Lucie wondered if she ever suspected her husband spent his lunch hour propositioning other men’s wives?!

Part of Lucie wanted to return Matthew’s message…something naughty and encouraging…as revenge for Jess’s suggestion that she smelled! But then, Lucie couldn’t do that to Richard…and she really wouldn’t want to.

Lucie smiled at just the thought of her husband, and wondered if he’d be finished with meetings early today. She’d bought steak for dinner. Climbing into her pink Range Rover, she threw the Blackberry on the passenger seat. Lucie stroked the pink leather gear-stick as she turned the key in the ignition, and slipped on her flamboyant sunglasses.

You might not be able to buy class, Lucie thought…or taste…but you can’t buy love or happiness either. Everything I need is free… she grinned to herself, still unable to believe her new life… and for everything I want, there’s a credit card!

For Love Nor Money

2010-03-23T18:33:00.001Z

For love nor money
I make you
nothing
but an eagle in flight
and less a child
that monsters might seek
to hide
beneath your bed.
Let it never be said, that I
turned the other eye
or was blind of cheek,
for it was me who peeled
the sheet away
and stood up beside you
to face the days and endless
nights, of black and green –
for I had seen
the colour of your
money long ago; but not your
love; no,
for that was buried too deep
and I would have to keep peeling
more than sheets,
more onion layers,
if I was ever to see it
baying
at the stars;
but for your love nor money,
I know,
I shall never ask.

Ode to the Owl & the Pussycat...

2010-03-23T17:16:00.001Z

As a child, I really liked Edward Lear. So, when asked to write something close to utter nonsense for a Leeds Savage Club writer's meeting, I think he may have influenced my response! :)

Carpe is Latin for a Fish

“Carpe is Latin for a fish,”
they said,
and were patted proudly
atop the head
by the master.
“Write faster,”
he insisted, and steam
rose from
their viscous pens,
as they copied, parrot-fashion,
from the chalky surfboard.

The swordfish tutor tried his best
to invest the depth of his knowledge
in the tiddlers;
and the school was doing
rather well,
despite a controversial decision,
not to admit any
students in shells.

Shells,
you see…don’t do well.

He would stand before them
each day and tell
tales of life
under the waves,
hoping against hope that the shoal,
would learn of cars, and broccoli,
and caves,
and all things on land
that would stretch and expand
their little aquatic minds:-

“Carpe is Latin for a fish,” they said,
in unison,
and the swordfish swelled with pride.
Next week there’d be a fieldtrip
all the way
to the edge of the tide.

Why Not?

2010-03-23T16:22:00.001Z

Why don't you just take what you want, when you want it? Even when it doesn't belong to you or it would hurt someone else?

Well...it's because that's wrong...isn't it? It's selfish and immoral. Even if you're an impulsive sort, like me, who generally does as they please and doesn't worry too much what others think...you have an internal 'halt' button when your actions would cause someone harm... So who do you reckon put that there? Were you born with morals? Or did your parents teach them to you? And what could possibly make you lose them altogether?

There are definitely people who don't have limits, and who will just take what they want...regardless of the consequences. So, how are those people made? ...And what is it like to be one of them?

This poem was inspired by a Leeds Savage Club writers' task, which specified we should write about something rising from the ashes, a rebirth, or a resurrection. I wanted to explore an event or situation wherein, a person reaches dizzying heights of disgrace, and, due to touching the gutter, rises to live a life 'free' and unaffected by moral judgement...living then, by the new law of the Phoenix -

New Law of the Phoenix

So,
go right ahead –
pull me from the gutter
and lay me to rest;
- God knows where I belong.

Certainly not in the realms
of the strong, for I crawl
more than I walk;
I have an ever-crimson
mark
of shame
upon my head…

…it’s something I picked up in
your bed, no earthly doubt
about that.

But listen, sly, beautiful rat,
shut your mouth whilst I
hold court…
for I’ve always been
the smouldering sort…low burn
‘til the kindling ignites;
and there’s no stopping
a stalactite, once
it starts to grow.

So let’s
take
this
slow and win the race,
just like they said…
…and things will come,
true enough, I bet,
as a Phoenix
rising
from the dirt;
a blaze to feed my
insatiable thirst to feel
something more,

something beyond these
unwritten laws of
minding my hands.

Why should I not
have
what I can?
And what wants me back?
Why should we not rise from the ash
of devastation
we know we will cause,
flying a flag for something more
than the children we are:
afraid to fall.

Brief Tempest

2010-03-23T14:54:00.003Z

Two things I am not:
an idiot,
or a child…better yet
I am
a wild thing, sent with the moon,
when the wolf did howl.

Today you asked me
very obvious things
that I thought you knew the answers to,
…and that,
on top of this,
is just the sort of mess,
that makes me want to kiss
or kill you.

“I don’t mean to bewilder you,”
you say,
as you skip and frolic away across
the dunes of our living room floor.
“Change your mind
a thousand times, my love…
….I will settle
all scores outstanding.”

So, I write your name in sand-ink,
and together, we wait for it to smooth.
For as much as this one crashes,
and breaks,
we know,
calmer waves
will be along soon.

#Fridayflash - Black Jacket

2010-03-20T19:34:00.004Z

As she drew herself, reluctantly, from the thick cotton wool of sleep, Penny caught sight of a tangled shock of shaggy, dark hair, splayed across the pillow beside her.

She rubbed at her tired eyes, still sore from the club’s dry ice and the heavy make-up she hadn’t quite removed last night. Her mouth felt as dry as sawdust, but despite the discomfort and thirst, she was more than able to smile at the owner of the dark hair’s presence. Well…rather at her own presence. This was, after all, his place.

Penny pushed herself up on her elbow and leaned gently across his naked back, until she could see his face. Her smile widened…Anthony…or was it Andrew?…was still fast asleep, his long, dark eyelashes, resting softly on his stubbly cheeks.

In the early morning light that filtered through the curtains, Penny noticed he had a large, electric guitar, tattooed between his shoulder blades. It’s neck and fret board were now clearly visible above the bed’s white sheets. Penny wasn’t surprised she hadn’t noticed his body-art last night. When she met him, Anthony had been wearing a black jacket that now lay discarded on the bedroom floor…and after that…well, she’d only really cared about what wasn’t covering his skin!

Penny pushed her own, tangled hair back off her forehead and breathed out contentedly, recalling the moment she first laid eyes on Anthony. His jacket was the thing that caught her attention… It was flamboyant, a vintage cavalry coat, double breasted, with pewter buttons and beautiful, intricate, charcoal beading. Rare and expensive-looking, Anthony had worn it well. The jacket nipped in at his narrow hips, and suited his messy haircut and the shiny, white guitar slung across his body. Up on the stage, he’d had an air of all the best things from the eighties…rock music and neon, the remnants of Punk, and the advent of Goth. His pants were just a little too tight and the music seemed to be part of him. He had reminded Penny of her self…aside from a voice like silk, he could have been her male incarnation. Watching him, up there performing to the crowd, she’d found herself captivated…and covetous… Penny had seen something she wanted to own…more than she’d ever craved possession of anything.

Penny had also known, it wouldn’t take much to get what she so desired. The musician was very sure of himself…but Penny knew her own charms. A glance alone had Anthony hooked. Just a few flattering comments, a couple of drinks on a set break, and a wry smile from a table close to the stage, soon had him playing only to her. Penny had flicked her wild curls in measured seduction, and raised a suggestive eyebrow or two…before she fixed her bedroom eyes on his and waited for her prey to bite.

He had taken the bait, of course. Hook, line and sinker…getting Anthony out of that sexy jacket had been little more than child’s play! He was, no doubt, used to attention – he clearly knew what he wanted too - and last night, Penny could think of nothing better, than sinking gleefully into what stood before her.

Truth be known, she thought, as she leaned over Anthony’s sleeping form, observing their abandoned clothes, she could still think of nothing better…

Quietly, and gently, so as not to wake him, Penny slipped out from under the covers. She needed coffee. The beer had flowed freely last night, and her veins were screaming for caffeine.

Moving with as much stealth as she could muster, Penny pulled on her tight black jeans and the vest with the shiny print that she’d worn last night. Anthony didn’t stir, even as she leaned over him to push the curtain aside and check the weather.

It looked warm outside. Strong sunlight filtered between the densely packed buildings of the city centre. Penny drew back from the window, and picking up Anthony’s jacket from the bedroom floor, she slipped it on, letting her self sink into its scratchy, vintage felt. The fabric smelled of him, she smirked…but that would fade with time…

Penny stood before the bedroom mirror, stopping a moment as she passed it…and it was just as she’d thought. The jacket looked fantastic on her! It clung in all the right places and was well worth the effort to obtain it.

Buttoning its shiny, double breast, until the jacket’s starched military collar stood almost upright, Penny gathered her purse and slipped quietly from Anthony’s bedroom… She needed to order that coffee.

‘One double strength Americano, please…’ she mused triumphantly, fingering a pewter button as she imagined her order. ‘…To go.’ There would be little point in pleasantries now…Penny already had exactly what she came for.

Sorry about my late post (again!)...was traveling last night, on a ferry to Rotterdam. Needless to say, the on-board musician was wearing a rather wonderful jacket... :-p

#Fridayflash - Caitlin

2010-03-13T14:54:00.001Z

It's Mothering Sunday in the UK on 14th March...so here's something fitting... ;-P

Caitlin’s mum was one of those people who didn’t care much for life. That was partly what made it easier for the six-year-old, to watch when she drank the poison.

Caitlin knew that poison made mummy happy. And when mummy drank enough, she would sing - loud and raucous, at the top of her voice… Caitlin liked that! They would have parties, she and mummy, and Caitlin would sing too, staying up way past her bedtime. It was lovely to be so happy with mummy. When mummy drank the poison, she loved everyone – especially Caitlin – and she would tell her, over and over again.

Mummy liked poison so much that sometimes, she would spend her money for food, on poison instead. Caitlin was always hungry when she did that, but it didn’t matter. Mummy said life was very sad without the poison…and Caitlin didn’t want her to be sad. When mummy was feeling happy, that made Caitlin happy too.

Mummy kept her poison under the sink, or under the mattress…or sometimes under the sofa cushions when she watched telly. Caitlin had tried the poison once, when she felt sad, but it wasn’t a bit like the potions in Alice in Wonderland as she’d expected. Caitlin didn’t grow taller, or instantly start to laugh – the poison just tasted funny, like it would burn the skin off the back of her throat, and it made her cough until she was sick.

Mummy said poison made Caitlin ill because, it was just for grown-ups. One day, she said, Caitlin would grow to like poison as much as she did…maybe even as much as grandma had. Caitlin had never met grandma, but she’d seen poison make mummy sick too, and she knew she would never like it.

When mummy had too much poison, or worse, no poison at all, she would fall asleep for years, like Sleeping Beauty. When that happened, mummy would always be too tired to take Caitlin to school. Caitlin had tried waking mummy to remind her, but then she got very angry, which always meant getting smacked. So Caitlin would go to school on her own…because if she didn’t, her teachers shouted too. Sometimes Caitlin had dirty clothes, or put them on inside out. The other children laughed at her then, and called her horrid names, and mummy was right - life was hard and sad when she didn’t drink any poison.

Mummy hadn’t had any poison today. Or yesterday…and she’d been crying, a lot. There would be no money for poison until Wednesday, and that made mummy very sad, and very cross. The only time she wasn’t shouting at Caitlin was when she was sleeping. Then she seemed almost peaceful, just a little restless - like the princess from that fairytale…the one who could feel the pea under her mattress…

“Caitlin?” Miss Barratt’s voice drew the little girl back into the empty classroom. “You’re last again…” The teacher smiled. “Isn’t your mummy here yet?”

Caitlin broke her daydream, shoved her homework into her backpack and shook her head. Mummy had been asleep when she left for school, and she would still be asleep when Caitlin got home.

“Is your mummy coming to collect you?” Miss Barratt said, with concern. She’d been a little worried about Caitlin lately…the child seemed, well, neglected…but it wasn’t polite to pry.

Caitlin shook her head again, and Miss Barratt frowned.

“Is someone else coming to collect you?” The teacher crouched beside the little girl’s desk when she didn’t respond to the question. “Caitlin,” she said softly, “where is your mum?”

“She’s sleeping,” Caitlin whispered. “She’s always happy when she’s sleeping.” Miss Barratt looked puzzled.

“How do you know she’s sleeping, Caity? Is she sick?” Caitlin nodded.

“She was,” the little girl’s wide, blue eyes met her teacher’s. “And she was sad…but she won’t be anymore. I helped her.”

“That was very nice of you,” Miss Barratt smiled. “How did you help her?”

“Like the woodcutter helped the wolf,” Caitlin suddenly grinned, her milk teeth displayed in a sickly proud sneer. “She fell asleep then…so I’ve got a hundred years now to find her a prince and…” Caitlin caught herself abruptly, and looked a little panicked. “Miss Barratt?” she said, somewhat urgently. “Did I get muddled? Does a kiss still wake the princess if she hasn’t got a head?!”

#Fridayflash - Dishes

2010-02-28T00:58:00.001Z

I’m standing at the sink, my hands covered in suds, when she sneaks up behind me. She wraps her lithe arms around my middle and stands on her toes, resting her chin on my shoulder. I feel her lips nuzzle me there, and her hot breath penetrates my shirt like the heat from an open fire. Her long hair is loose around her face, and it tickles my ear.

“Thank you…” she whispers, genuinely, though her teeth are scraping playfully at the back of my neck. “For dinner…for tonight.” I smile and meet her soft eyes in the window over the sink. It’s dark outside, and it’s raining…and the glass is a mirror.

“What makes you think the night is over?” I ask her, trying hard to be suave as I attempt to arch one eyebrow and end up raising both. She laughs at me, like breaking glass, instantly mocking my feeble stab at ‘sexy’…and as she buries her face in my shoulder she isn’t even trying, but her act beats mine, hands down. My insides twist inexplicably, and I couldn’t love her more.

“Happy Anniversary…” she tells me, as I position a plate in the dish rack, watching the soap slide over its smooth surface, echoing the rain on the window. It slides too slowly, like the time this washing up is taking…

I wash a knife; a fork…and her hands push under my shirt, tucking themselves into my waistband as though they always ought to be there. She presses her fingers into the flesh of my stomach, and draws me back against her tantalising warmth, while I place the paired cutlery in the drainer. Her tongue runs itself, firm and wet, up the back of my neck, and I shudder. She wants my attention…and I no longer care if the dishes get done…

I draw my wet hands from the water and meet her wicked eyes in the black glass before me…then her hands are on mine, fingers interlacing before she draws the wetness back up my arms and spreads the suds across my skin.

I close my eyes as her damp fingers push themselves up the back of my neck, into my hair, and I can’t help but hold my breath when I turn to face her. She runs her thumbs over my cheekbones like she’s touching silk and barely rests her lips on mine as she breathes, instead of says, that she loves me.

And I want to tell her back…so I let my breath go…and I open my eyes…but of course, she’s gone.

Damn it. I really fucked up this time.

Sorry my #fridayflash was posted so late this week! Started a new job and been very busy. Promise to get back on schedule very soon. :)

#Fridayflash - September

2010-02-19T02:32:00.000Z

My childhood days were full of wonder and glory…or so it seemed. The sun, for me, was always shining, and the barley was always golden. My skin stayed tanned year round and I was happy and warm, breathing perfumed country air.

Of course, as an adult I realise, it must have rained sometimes…but strangely, I don’t remember. To me, it was always summer…even when my Sundays were spent picking blackberries and the mushrooms scented the woods with their heavy musk.

My father, you see, was an excellent parent, and undoubtedly, the reason for my eternal sun. He loved my brother and I more than he loved his life, and it shone from him like starlight. We never questioned that we were his everything.

When Dad wasn’t working, out on our farm, he spent his spare hours by our sides, backing up my brother and I at our latest swimming gala or rugby game. He was always the proudest father in the crowd, even when we didn’t win – and as we got older, he revelled in the warm embarrassment we pretended his attention caused.

My mother, on the other hand, had never been around. Dad said she left when I was three, but that didn’t matter – it only meant he would have to love us twice as much.

I asked my brother about Mum sometimes, when it occurred to me that I ought to…but at barely 12 months older than I, he didn’t remember a lot. She had blonde hair, he said, the colour of our barley fields, and eyes like the blue of the sky. She smelled of earth and fresh bread, and made chocolate chip cookies on Thursdays… That’s how he knew it was Thursday the morning he woke and she wasn’t there - because the cookies were.

My brother remembered Mum’s breakfasts best, he said. She’d made him eggs, just like I learned to when I grew tall enough to reach the stove. Our Dad had never been there for breakfast…because cows need milking when the sun comes up…but my brother recalled that he and the dark-haired labourer who lodged with us, would come in later for cups of tea.

It was around the time my mum left, that my brother also recalled the commotion of an accident. Our labourer, Dad said, when pushed to talk about it, had slipped and fallen under the baler… We didn’t ask for more than that, as Dad found it hard to recount that day. With no neighbours for miles around, the two men were the best of friends…and Dad could never bring himself to hire help again.

Each year throughout my childhood, Dad would take us up to the woods in September, with bunches of summer’s last flowers…which we laid at the foot of a pair of oak trees Dad told us he’d planted there for his friend.

We didn’t understand back then, why the trees were two. You see, I had no memories of my infancy...and through the years, the truth faded from my brother’s mind too. We grew up without thinking about it…content with our wonderful father and our charmed country life… And in the midst of all that sanctuary, we hardly noticed that our raven hair wasn’t red, like our Dad’s, let alone detected the reality of how our true parents came not to be there. Not even when we stood at their graves…in sunlight…each September.

'The Sight'

2010-02-18T15:28:00.001Z

I could see souls,
you said, and I know
that scared you
half to death
for fear that I’d
see yours.

But you gave me cause to look
anyway,
didn’t you?
You wanted me to see through
your damage
and your lies –
you had something like
snake eyes, and they
looked daggers at me;
the doomed king (or queen)
to your Macbeth.

And you may call me damned
or blessed,
but I’d have hurled myself
from the tower for truth,
and it was clear how you knew that,
for there’d be no one there to catch me
when I fell.

I may as well have turned my soul
and all those seen,
over to the fires of Hell
and testified
to their lonely burning,
for only one thing is certain –
it wasn’t ‘the sight’ that left me yearning for
the rotten fruits of vile temptation,
for justice, love, and my own salvation –

No. You need not fear at all;
this queen never saw your soul –
just the choking blackness of
the hole
where once it should have been.

Been re-reading Macbeth this week, can you tell?! :-)

Medieval Architecture in my Glorious County - St. Hilda's Curves...

2010-02-15T01:53:00.000Z

This is St. Hilda's, in Whitby, North Yorkshire.

First founded in 657AD, this glorious Benedictine abbey was the venue for King Oswiu of Northumbria's 7th century 'Synod of Whitby', wherein it was decided that the Northumbrian church would adopt the Roman Catholic calculation of Easter and monastic tonsure (the traditional monks' haircut!). It was also home to the Saxon poet, Caedmon.

The abbey was re-founded in 1078 on the orders of William de Percy, and re-dedicated to St. Peter and St. Hilda. It survived until 1540, when it was finally sacked during the Dissolution.

The ruin has since been a landmark for many a sailor, and an inspiration to many a writer, including Bram Stoker in the process of writing, Dracula. I follow in their esteemed footsteps with a poem about my love of medieval architecture, and the compulsion to draw features and plans of St. Hilda's Abbey -

Drawing St. Hilda (Whitby, N.Yorks.)

I want to talk of curves and lines,
of willow trees, and creeping vines
and beautiful decay, I want to talk
of summer days spent
beneath your shade,
to vanquish all who seek to
take an ounce
of majesty from you.

O the things I want to do –

To touch you
And draw you
and coat you and call you
in dreams of sandstone and ice cream,
to hear you scream my name
back through time
in centuries infinitely more sublime than
this I dare call mine. I want to talk of
curves and lines –
Oh yes, and better still,
I want to caress them long and
Lithe,
Arched and true;
I want you – for as long as you’ll
have me, abbey, for as long
as you’ll let me
sit and copy
every swoosh and circle,
every rose and purple wildflower –

I want to taste you
for hours – to wrap my
fingers round pillars and butts
and cover you in the gelatinous
lustre of grace. I want to leave
it on your face, forever, – so you
stink of me, and I of you,
so we will be like the glued pigeon
feathers that cling to your hair and edges –
both of us soft and solid wretches,
unwillingly pledging
to be together until we are free.

Reflections

2010-02-15T00:57:00.006Z

This ought to be two poems, side by side, reflecting one another, but blogger won't allow me to improve its appearance here (grr!).

Said I: Who are you                                   Said she: Who are you
sweet, joyous stranger?                               who looks on me
Who stares back at me,                               here from coolness and water?
a mirror of persuasion?                                This morning, more than most
Where did you come from?                          she is her father’s daughter of time and space,

Were you born on light in silver dawn?         she is ready now to hear the truth and
She who pushes soft tresses back,                 take off her face of heaven…for she
with hands like holy, waxen flax                  is older. The voice in her eyes grows
and dresses here each day,                           ever colder as she marches with the
with such life-consuming courage                 soldiers of life. She has known the cuts
and fire                                                    of several knives, and she has survived –
that it eats her blushing face?                      ever still as she was. Ever just
Will you not take your place                      as wonderful to look at, and ever plagued by
in darkness                                              demon cats, who brought her chains long ago
and bliss                                                 and fed her grains of sand. They shattered her
as you belong with those cherry-lips,           dreams and plans of fairy-castles;
my devil? And stop,                                 and taught her just one thing -
teasing my escape?                                   she could sing of freedom aloud,

Brush those glorious clouds                       yet throb with the wounds of battle,
from your nape                                         for the clouds would always
and smile, child –                                    be there
I’d give anything                                     to hide
to be so free.                                           her chafing, iron shackles.

Why Can't We Help But Look?

2010-02-15T00:26:00.001Z

The starving in deserts, the casualties of war, victims of terror, of tragedies, and natural disasters... They're on the T.V., in our newspapers, every day...by supply and demand.

What is it about these images that keeps us looking? ...and going back to look again? And buying a book? And watching a documentary? And making a movie? And what do the subjects of these images feel? I find it fascinating enough for poetry...

A Comment on Graphic Journalistic Photography

I understand you
looking
at me,
but why so
morbidly? Without pity,
or grace,
or reddened face –
how dare you stare?

How dare you imagine
yourself
there?
Profess to care and understand
as you hand the image
on, agog?
“Oh, God!”
“That’s terrible!”
You
Know
Nothing!
You’ll only ever feel the sting
of vague humanity –
you don’t
care about me –
go home! Turn on your TV!
I know you can’t get enough,
that’s it; buy a book;
take a hundred and seventh
look at my misery!

Vulture! Scavenger! Vile carrion!
In a moment you’ll cast me off
and carry on with
your daily life – pick up a knife
and slice tomatoes for tea.
And in a week,
after you eat
your fill of tragedy,
it will be as though you never
gauped at me – mangled and crushed
and mauled –
just as if you’d never
ever
cast eyes on me
at all.

Something For St. Valentine's Day...

2010-02-15T00:02:00.002Z

When nothing & no one matters but being together...

Selfish Lovers

So,
there was that night,
on your sofa
when you told me the things
that I didn’t want to hear –
Things that should never be verbalised
by people
who want to be thought of
as decent –

but then
you and I
have never been that
and we clawed at one another that night
like cats, howling at a kitchen window,
begging to come inside.
We clung to one another –
Chimera on the couch, as though
we’d never be divided.

And that you could not look at me
that way -
was exactly
what made it so
forgivable to say
that it was ‘true’;
because it wasn’t something malleable –
it was just you, and I,
and I think,
it ever shall be. For we know
no rules,
me
and you,
in fact, we are, the epitome of cruel
to everyone but ourselves.

All their love should be shelved, so
we might spend
more time
rolling
in ours.
You’ve never brought me
spring flowers, and I know, you never will –
it’s not that kind of love still…
after all this time.
There are no doves, no jewels, no sky,
just enough to soak the breath from our sighs and insist
we cry our souls out on the floor…

at least once a week.

And I’ll tell you what is more…
the others know not of what they speak
when they say
they’ve never felt like this before.

Life On A Postcard...

2010-02-14T23:46:00.001Z

Where inspiration's concerned, I'm in a bit of a Biblical phase at the moment! I think this has a lot to do with the fact that I've been re-reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein lately and have rediscovered and been affected by all the previous texts, themes of good and evil, and the Biblical gender portrayals and ideals that affected its Victorian author.

As a result, when I was asked last week, as a task for the Leeds Writers' Group, to compose a 'life on a postcard', the following poem is what I came up with. In my Biblically-influenced state, I decided this little 'biography' ought to be a comment on the development (or lack of development!) of the character of 'woman' in the first four books of the Old Testament:

The Life of a Woman
(From Genesis to Deuteronomy)

See here, woman, how thou art unclean
of flesh, and all living wickedness art in thee,
but still, see, how thou art loved the same
and made as one with man,
made from him, no less,
born of earth and rib in Genesis,
as daughters have rights of sons.
See how thou art done well, by an honourable
God, despite thy vileness and thy sin?
See how thou didst begin in all deceit and gore?

See also how the mighty law protects thee
and defiles thee,
see how thou art free and guided
into chains. For thou shalt not kill, woman,
but thou shall be maimed
for thy whoring, and thy adultery…
…lest, of course,
thou be guilty…or be not.
And no sons wilst thou have begot
‘less in pain and misery, for thou deservest,
as the one who yeildeth first unto the serpent, and led men astray -
thus shalt thou crawl ever as he,
upon thy belly all your days.
And men shall be as angels yet, in My image,
to rule upon you for all’s sake.

#Fridayflash - Falling

2010-02-11T21:51:00.000Z

“Are you sure about this?”

“No.”

“Then I shouldn’t do it…I mean…you should just go back…”

“Is that what you really want?” Michael looked straight at me; almost held his breath. His deep-blue eyes were hurt and incredulous.

“No… God, no! You know it isn’t. I want you here…with me… But Michael, if you’re not sure..?” I sighed, heavily. “Look…the way I understand it, once we do this, there’s no going back…and I just don’t want you to hate me if you regret it later.”

“How could you think I’d do that?” Michael’s voice rose in irritation. “You think I could regret being with you?! Lucy…you’re everything…I could never hate you.”

“You might not think so,” I said, seeing truth in his eyes, yet needing to be sure. “But who knows how we’ll feel a year from now? Maybe your friends are right, maybe we’re being naïve about this and we should just accept that we’re different…”

“Lucy…I had no idea you felt that way… Do you really think they have a point?!” Michael sounded betrayed. I’d never said any of this before, but things were getting serious now…the point of no return. He had to be certain.

“No…of course I don’t…” I breathed, sad and conflicted. “Please, don’t be angry. I just don’t want you to give up anything you’ll miss…I couldn’t stand it if I made you unhappy. Michael…you have so much more to lose than I do…”

“You’re right.” He sighed and rubbed his fingers over his blond head in frustration. “I have a lot to lose… I’ll be leaving a job I was born to do, I’ll be leaving my men behind, and a war I believe in fighting…” he looked up at me, and smiled then, “…the Commander will be furious…and I’ll miss out on all sorts of officers’ privileges… But look at what I’m gaining, Lucy! I get you…and it’s better than all that. It’s better than anything! The war will go on without me…and so will the Unit …I think I’ve led it long enough.”

“And our differences?” I said, raising my eyebrow inquisitively. “What of those then?”

“Well, the way I understand it…after we do this, those will go away. I’ll be just like you.” He grinned, genuinely happy at the thought, and I returned his smile, curling my fingers around the back of his neck and leaning my forehead on his. I stared at Michael’s impossibly blue eyes and held their steady gaze.

“Michael…” I whispered. “Be sure…”

“I’ve never been surer,” he said, suddenly strong, as he pushed the knife into my hand.

Pulling him closer, I wrapped my arms around Michael’s shoulders and sliced the enormous, white wings from his naked back, with a practiced flick of my wrist.

Michael roared in agony as blood gushed from the fresh, ragged wounds…blood that was red…and mortal. His wings fell to the ground amidst a cloud of scattered, stained feathers, and I stepped back, dropping the knife with a violent clatter. I’d played by the rules…he’d had three chances to stop this…

Michael’s pained cries peaked as wails of desolate realisation when he saw the bony horns begin to erupt from my scalp and push through curly red hair that shortened before his eyes. I flexed my fingers as their nails lengthened to claws and a forked tail burst from my lower back, thrashing and whipping at the air.

“This doesn’t quite resolve our differences, angel…” I sneered. The voice that resonated from my morphing body, deepened with every word. “You’ll never be just like me…” I threw back my head and howled with hysterical laughter… Another divine warrior disabled...a leader, no less! This was getting far too easy!

I left Michael sobbing and bleeding on the pavement, as I descended through it, victorious. I didn’t know if the neutered angel cried for the Cause, his wings, or his broken heart…and neither did I care…

Good: 0 Evil: 1

#Fridayflash - What Cain Did

2010-02-05T01:34:00.005Z

Some of you asked for it, so here's Cain's side of the story...

The moment I saw her I knew she was more than just another beautiful woman in a bar. I hadn’t had the best of days, and honestly, I didn’t feel like talking…but there was just something about her…

She was tough…it radiated from her, but there was also something searching in her, like she knew there was more to life, and wouldn’t give up until she found it.

She had green eyes that seemed familiar. I noticed that when she sat down beside me; before she spoke, before she even looked at me. They were stunningly bright, and she pursed her soft mouth below them, whistling when the bartender placed another beer and whiskey chaser before me.

“Put it on the tab,” I grumbled, and she smirked… I could only see her out the corner of my eye, but I knew she was smiling. I felt it.

“Rough day?” She asked, leaning closer until I could feel her heat and smell her scent, like honey and jasmine. I wanted to ask her what the hell my drinking habits had to do with her – and if she’d been anyone else, I would have. But those green eyes were steady and genuine, like she’d listen for hours if I actually told her the whole sorry tale.

“Something like that,” I replied, offering a ghost of a smile in return. I couldn’t help it, and besides, facing her was far preferable to facing the images in my head.

We talked a little, the woman who said her name was Annabelle, and I. It was nice - sort of distracting - and mostly, I found I was honest with her. Except, of course, when we reached the inevitable –

“So what do you do?” She asked. I told her I was in IT, a consultant – everyone’s in IT now, aren’t they? She said she was a nurse, and it made a lot of sense. She had one of those invisible protective shells around her, like she’d got used to losing people. It was a shame, I thought. I’d been starting to really like her, but there was no use thinking ahead…Annabelle would never handle the truth.

I mean…how do you tell someone who saves lives, that you’re a professional killer; a specialist in lethal explosions? How do you tell her you fake terror attacks for a living, to feed the egos of bastard politicians and sway the opinions of the world? And how do you explain that a ‘rough day’ is the day a little boy gets caught in one of your car bombs? That the news channel in this very bar is reporting your handy work?

The truth is, you don’t, and there was no point pretending otherwise. It didn’t matter if Annabelle was a nurse really…my job wouldn’t wash with any woman. Even if it had been a choice between the Secret Service or prison - Cain Andrews, SAS deserter to Cain Andrews, government pawn - and I’d never asked to be who I am.

So, I charmed Annabelle instead, and waited for her to ask me in when I walked her home…because if she didn’t take me upstairs and take my mind off that boy’s blood on the embassy steps, I knew I’d never sleep again.

* * *

The following morning, as I stood naked in her bathroom doorway, she told me she didn’t do this often…she didn’t invite strange guys from bars into her bed. I reassured her, of course I didn’t think that…she didn’t seem the type to screw around… And for once, I was being honest, she really didn’t. Annabelle’s mouth was the most truthful thing I’d ever encountered, in speech and everything else. Her tongue was masterful and practiced, but by no means mechanical. She was bitter and sweet, generous and attentive…and vicious…all at once. In truth, she’d touched my soul, and God help me, I wanted more…

“I must be special then?” I asked her, and every fibre of me willed her to say ‘yes’, to say she felt the same startling connection here as I did. When she didn’t respond, I sought the confirmation I was sure I would find, in her kiss instead. Laying on the bed beside her, my eyes locked on her green gaze and I leaned towards her.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I murmured against her lips, nipping at their softness between words. She made an inquisitive sound, but didn’t move, only trembled, until I twisted, drawing her mouth into mine. “You think…” I breathed, breaking off as our kiss deepened. “That this can’t be happening...” She pushed my shoulder and I rolled willingly onto my back, raising the intensity and gasping my next words, breathlessly, into her hot, open mouth. “You think you can’t feel this way…after just one night…but…”

I felt her catch her breath then as she clawed away strands of her hair that caught in our kiss. I didn’t need to finish my sentence, it was clear she felt it too…her body screamed it, without words. Annabelle buried her fingers in my hair and drew me tighter against herself, her graceful arms snaking around my neck and back... I knew I’d never felt anything like this before, and might never again. Maybe I could tell her the truth about my work…perhaps she would understand…

I didn’t feel her stab me until the blade hit my heart - sliding very professionally between my ribs, through my back as she held me. I didn’t understand it and I tried to say her name, to ask her why, but found I couldn’t breathe enough to speak – my chest was full of crushing air and blood. She said she was sorry and my dying eyes saw truth in hers…her impossibly bright, green eyes.

It wasn’t until the clarity of death that I remembered why those eyes were familiar. My boss had the same green eyes,...just older. And so did his son…the boy I’d left dying on the embassy steps last night. There had always been a photo of the child on my boss's desk - posing with a woman he'd once told me was his niece...

The Circle of Friends Award...

2010-01-29T15:15:00.004Z

Now, I'm soft as butter in a lot of ways, so (despite the fact that it's a bit silly!) I was totally honoured when I had this award somewhat ceremoniously bestowed upon me last Tuesday! I was all the more honoured because, the one who so bestowed it, Carrie Clevenger, would be the first person I'd conjure in my own mind to give it right back to!

Carrie and I have never met outside of Twitterville, but I know enough... She's a fabulous poet to whom the world speaks as it does to me, and that's a lovely kindred to have found. If you've only ever read her #fridayflash, please make time for her poetry too. It's more than worth it.

I'd also like to bestow this award upon my fellow members of the Leeds Writers' Group, some of whom are known in Twitterville as Chance4321, mazzz_in_Leeds , petherin, MoxieMouth and HeatherLloyd83. Without these brilliant writers, who are also wonderful people, I wouldn't write half as much, or half as well...and I probably wouldn't write prose at all! Thank you guys, for all your prodding, and pulling apart and praising of my work...and for letting me do the same thing to yours! And, of course, for your friendship.

Last, but not least, I hand this award to David G Shrock (Draco Torre) for his consistently constructive criticism and some fabulously stimulating discussion of my poetry, and to Michelle D Evans and Marisa Birns, who visit my poetry as often as they visit my fiction and always leave the most beautifully encouraging comments!

So, though I'm not a fan of these chain things as a rule, I guess here is where I say, collect your award and pay it forward! This one's different. :)

#Fridayflash: Cain and Annabelle

2010-01-29T02:45:00.001Z

“I don’t do this often, you know…” I didn’t quite know why I was telling him this, but for some reason, it was important to me. It was important what he thought of me.

The man standing in my bathroom doorway, who said his name was Cain Andrews, raised an amused eyebrow in my direction.

“Don’t do what?” He smiled, gently playful, and I felt something fall inside me, tumbling through my chest…like glitter, or tiny shards of light. Whatever it was, it sparkled. “Approach strange men in bars and invite them into your bed?” I grimaced ruefully, somewhat embarrassed.

“Exactly.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said, still smiling, then nodded at me, honest and knowing. “I can see that about you, Annabelle.” He grinned, jovial again. “So I must be special, right?”

I smiled simply, not sure what to say for the best. My entire core had responded immediately in the affirmative to his question, but I didn’t want to seem frightening. As he said, we were technically strangers…but there was no getting away from this. I truly felt something startling for him, something like never before…

Now, listen. I don’t want you to get me all wrong here – I’m not a ‘love at first sight’ sort of woman. I’ve never been the star-crossed, Juliet type who thinks every man she shags will love her! I certainly hadn’t intended to feel this way when I approached Cain. I’m a career girl – and love was the last thing on my mind. Cain Andrews was just another guy, in another town, another bar, on another, ordinary work night.

When I failed to respond to his question, Cain made his way back to the bed and lay down beside me, propping himself on an elbow and turning towards me. He made for a wonderful, naked sight, and I watched him move…impossibly, still hungry.

I slid my right hand under the pillow and dropped down onto my own elbow, until our eyes were level. His dark gaze met mine, then continued through me like a knife through butter. I shook my head lightly, to loosen the hold of dizzying serotonins. Get a grip, Annabelle! I scolded internally, as Cain stretched towards me and kissed me lightly.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he murmured against my lips, nipping at my mouth between words. I made a noise in response that might have been inquisitive, but I dare not speak lest the magic of his exquisite mouth left mine. “You think…” he sighed, breaking off as our kiss deepened. “That this can’t be happening...” He rolled onto his back when I pushed at his shoulder, raising the intensity, and gasped his next words breathlessly into my hot, open mouth. “You think you can’t feel this way…after just one night…but…”

My breath caught in my throat and my heart, I’m certain, ceased beating… I clawed strands of hair off my face that were entangled in our kiss, and knew I couldn’t let him continue. If he said it, if he told me he felt this too, I wasn’t sure I could end it the way it ought to end.

Wrapping my arms around him, I buried the fingers of my left hand in his thick, dark hair, savouring the final essence of a moment I would never forget. His mouth against mine, fell open in shock when he felt the knife pierce his ribcage, sliding into his heart through his back, like tender steak.

For the few moments he lived, Cain stared at me with pain and confusion. He mouthed my name soundlessly… and I replied.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and I meant it. Another second, I added, in silence, with my eyes, it’s almost over.

As his body went limp in my arms, I settled him back into the bed. If it weren’t for the blood, glistening and oozing, he’d look just as though he were sleeping. I rubbed my clean hand over my face to sober myself, and breathed deeply. It was a shame…and I really was sorry - for both of us.

He was the most engaging mark I’d ever had the honour of killing…and this was the only hit that had ever hurt me. Money usually compensated me, but as I looked at Cain Andrews, lying dead and beautiful beside me, I knew, I wouldn’t sleep well tonight.

Why I write...

2010-01-26T17:28:00.002Z

(If you're here for the poem - it's at the bottom. If you're interested in why I write - read on!)

I've been observing lots of blog posts and articles recently about why people write. So I thought maybe I'd try and write my own...but it turns out it's a lot harder (without sounding arrogant or condescending, anyway!) than it looks.

See, I thought there'd be one reason I write, and one alone - i.e. I can't help it! Poetry seems to flow from me whether I want it to or not. And that's a noble-sounding reason, right?! But the more I receive comments and feedback on my work and the more I engage with my audience, the more I realise, there are other (more conceited!) reasons I write.

I'm a selfish artist - I write to satisfy my own desire to do so, and alongside that, I'm a narcissist who also writes (or keeps writing) because people read/enjoy my work. Would I write anyway, even if nobody read it? Of course - because I couldn't stop myself (the poems would just keep coming!) - but that doesn't mean I enjoy the feedback any less! I think, if we're honest, all writers revel in feedback - good or bad! We lap up the good, and we use the bad to improve...attention is attention, after all - but it's not all about us, is it? In fact, the selfish fulfilling of the compulsion to write and the joy of feedback, on examination, are smaller reasons for my writing than I thought they'd be...

You see, over and above everything else, I have a desire to comment on lives and emotions and situations - I'm an observer, a thinker, but mostly a feeler - and that's my biggest reason to write - because I want to make my audience feel. I want to affect you. I want to make you feel better or worse, feel love, hate or joy, repulsion, desire, fear...I want to make you blush, gasp, smile, cry...and all of it only with words. That's the joy of writing poetry... Every so often, a person will read a poem and be affected by it - they'll experience a moment they'll never forget. I know...because I've had that moment. Then they'll go back to that poem and re-read it, over and over - because they want to feel like that again. For some people, someday, that poem will be one of mine...and that's spellbinding. That's why I write.

And after all that prose, still the true poet, I think I can say it better in verse:

Poet, Heal Everyone Else

They know me as

a love poet,

a dreamer,

pain eater,

But I

have a nasty habit

of publicising

as a healer.

I don't always

mean

to entice,

to get it so right,

with minimal effort,

without foresight

to tempt them to my side.

But I am a glutton

for one who needs me,

worse still for one who

leads me to lie down

and ache with them.

Bitter or sweet

lend me

your agonies and your yearnings

for what are my

mornings

without

I have seen you

through the

night?

So...I'll get my coat then...if my head will fit through the door! :-)

Molehills

2010-01-21T16:38:00.001Z

You smell like heaven and half-light,
like angel-dust and iron pyrite,
a thousand kisses, a thousand nights,
it wouldn’t be enough…

Should I tell you I love you
among this dust?
Should I run, and never look back?
How about I just scratch my nails
across your skin?
How about we don’t talk, but hold
the devil-words in..?
…the ones with all the reasons,
and the rationality…
how about we don’t
handle
feasibility..?
For tonight,
how about we
laugh? And ignore all mountains
in our path?

I’ll help you over them
tomorrow,
when we stop feeling our time
is borrowed from beyond
the stars. Tonight, let me trace your scars,
your veins, your marks, your lines…

and give yourself
over, please –
I want to make you
mine.

#Fridayflash - Hush, baby, hush...

2010-01-21T14:41:00.002Z

He stared at the body on the table, and thought of his wife. What would she think if she saw this? He knew he’d like to tell her about it, the way he told her everything else, but he didn’t want to upset her. He didn’t want to worry her…not when the baby was so close to being born.

The baby…

He looked again at the body, squinting, grimacing, and could hardly bear to see it. Just yesterday, it had been alive, breathing. Like his wife…like the life inside her…what would she think..? The knife trembled and shook in his hand. He really didn’t feel well. Something had changed in him this time.

The room spun as he stood over the body, and he felt a heated wave of nausea sweep upwards from his feet. He clamped a gloved hand over his mouth, lest he vomit, and turned away, taking a deep, steadying breath.

His eyes settled on a small saw on the counter, and he closed them, wishing the object away. After the knife, he’d have to use that…and then he’d go home to dinner. She’d wonder why he couldn’t eat…and later, why he dreamed…

He used to find this part interesting, he recalled; he used to quite enjoy it; the meticulous study of every piece. But since his wife had placed his hand on her swollen belly, and they had smiled together, touching foreheads over the kicks of their unborn child, he’d lost his appetite. He honestly didn’t think he’d be able to do this again, not after the baby arrived…

He turned back to the body, forcing himself to look at it, and for the first time, noticed the smell… His stomach flipped, his chest tightening unbearably. Who knew they smelled like that, even after death? Like powder and lotion…

The pathologist tied his surgical mask tight around his face, to keep out the smell of the body. He flexed his fingers to steady them, and raised his shaking scalpel to the tiny child’s chest. Making the ‘Y’ incision, he felt bile rise into the back of his throat and tears sting his eyes. This would be the last baby on his slab, he decided. The others could handle the cot deaths after today.

A Couple More Love Poems to Match the Latest Theme...

2010-01-19T23:40:00.002Z

Tell Me Now

Tell me now,
while we're this close,
where I can feel
your heart,
see your eyes.
Tell me now,
that you feel...
nothing.

Beneath my palm,
this pounding
begs
to differ...

...you're shaking...
and it isn't anger,
isn't sadness now,
it's me.
I can feel your heat,
slow,
rising,
your eyes aching into mine
and the time
when you were leaving
has long passed.

So go on,
tell me now,
while we're this close;
pull me nearer to you
and whisper
that it's over.

The Final Ecstasy

If I should die
Think only this of me
T'was not the death that killed me
But the love.
T'was not the extinguishing of a spark
But the burning of a flame
That halted the heavy beating of my heart.
And write not my name
On the headstone, but yours,
For I remember none of who or what I was before;
Before I became a piece of you
And you a part of me
If I should die now, I take you with me:
One entity; one writhing body;
In the throes of a final ecstasy.

Interpreting Abstract Poetry...

2010-01-18T23:32:00.001Z

I deliberately haven't explained this poem, or how it was inspired, because I'm very interested in your interpretation of it; in it's effect on you. I know why I wrote it...but that's irrelevant when it stands alone.

So, when you read it, what does this poem mean to you? What is it about for you? Please leave your interpretations as comments without reservation, and don't worry, there are no right or wrong answers - I'm just interested!

Pegasus

it was blue
blue
and try as I might
I could not shake the thought of you.
I closed my eyes, breathed deep
and knew
I must wake up or
be damned.
And it wasn't planned, of course,
this vicious serpent morphed
into a white and graceful
winged horse with
fore-horn
burning bright,
yet we rode it bare-back
into the night
without sorrow or regret
that it wasn't yours
to give or
mine to take
and it had no business
no presence
on the silver lake, where the
wild things walked
among the swirling shadows.
And thus the morning mist consumed
its wings
the sunrise glinting off our golden rings
when the dawn revealed to us
by force
that it was not white, but grey,
and just a horse.

Love Poetry...are there limits?

2010-01-18T19:36:00.001Z

The human condition fascinates me...the depth of our capacity to feel fascinates me, and my writing is often inspired by that interest. But a recent penchant to explore this avenue of inspiration with frankness and sincerity, has raised a question for me - Are there things that should be shrouded in poetry? Are there certain constructs for imagery that should be skirted around or left unfinished so they are only hinted at, rather than becoming clear to the reader? Is honesty always the best policy? See what you think of the following poem...is it beautiful?...or vulgar...? I can't dictate what my muse will have me write...so I'll leave it to you to decide!

Angel Eyes

You ask me to touch you,
and I cannot refuse,
you beseech me to kiss you
and know your mind,
and I cannot
for love of life
hear another line
of any song
but yours -
you, my darling,
open doors,
to worlds I was ignorant of before,
worlds hidden beyond the scars
which you ask me to worship
like heaven’s blue stars…

and worship I do
on my knees
with my tongue
with all enthusiasm done and due
to one
as mesmerising as you.
Then you ask me to eat you,
whole and alive,
and I want it so badly I taste your sighs,
and guttural groans when you look my way,
and I beg you, stay, stay forever,
at my fevered side,
for I want to know what sustains you,
and see what lies
inside,
beyond your aching
angel eyes.

#Fridayflash - Peggy

2010-01-15T02:59:00.002Z

Her mother always said she was a dreamer. Embarrassing…like an adult who believed in Santa. Well, who’s laughing now? Olivia smirked, as she climbed over the farm gate in the pre-dawn twilight. She dragged the saddle off the gate’s crossbar behind her, and began striding across the field to the stable-block. Sometimes dreams come true… Impossible is always possible, with patience…and faith.

Olivia didn’t pretend for a minute that her dream had been easy to achieve. Of course, it hadn’t. It had taken her a long time to find Peggy…but she’d always said, some day, she would own her own trusty steed. Her mother had laughed at her, doubtful that she’d find what she sought…and it was true - Peggy was rare. But Olivia had been determined.

As she turned through the stable-block door and swung the heavy, leather saddle off her forearm over the gate of Peggy’s box, the mighty creature shifted, turning towards the noise. Her huge brown eyes met Olivia’s blue ones, and the young woman smiled at her new best friend. The equine gently snorted its approval of her presence, and nuzzled her pocket in search of a mint. Olivia obliged, digging into her gillet for the sugary treat and rubbing Peggy’s velvet muzzle whilst she chewed.

Taking the bridle from her shoulder and laying it across the saddle’s seat, Olivia retrieved a grooming brush and pulling-comb from a hook on the stable-block wall. She let herself into the box beside Peggy, and as she worked the brush over the creature’s grey coat and combed out her glistening, cream-coloured mane, the sun rose over the trees outside.

Olivia broke sweat in the morning heat, removing Peggy’s latest patches of baked mud from her shoulders and hocks, and flicking the discs of packed earth from her hooves. Peggy liked to roll in the dust after a ride, and though Olivia knew her hard work would be cancelled out on their return, she wouldn’t have had it any other way. She’d longed for Peggy; searched for her…and she couldn’t possibly complain.

After a good forty minutes of grooming, Olivia finally held up the bridle and presented the bit to Peggy’s mouth. It was a soft bit; a straight, nylon snaffle, designed for a responsive steed. The equine took it on the first present and stood calmly, as Olivia fitted the saddle she’d had custom made, ensuring the girth was securely buckled.

Letting herself out of Peggy’s box a moment, Olivia hung the grooming implements back on the stable-block wall.

“You look beautiful, Peggy,” she smiled, donning her riding helmet as she admired her handy work in cleaning and buffing both creature and tack. Peggy whinnied softly in response, as though agreeing that, as always, she did indeed look wonderful. “There’s just one thing…”

Olivia took down a jar of hoof oil containing a large brush, and a torn piece of suede leather, from a shelf above the grooming brushes. Slipping back into Peggy’s box, she bent down to the creature’s feet and painted each hoof with the oil, making them glisten with impossible colours, like petrol on a wet road. Then she stood, wiping her hands on the leather rag.

“There,” she said, approaching Peggy’s great head and meeting one glassy brown eye. “Almost done.” Reaching up, she brushed the animal’s curled forelock aside and polished the twisted, golden horn that protruded from her skull, inducing a magnificent shine.

Olivia placed her tools back on their shelf, and led Peggy from her box, past the other animals stabled in their block. As they reached the doorway into the morning sun, she jammed her foot in the stirrup, took hold of the pommel, and mounted with a quick bounce.

Feeling her rider aboard, Peggy shifted, restless with anticipation. Olivia didn’t tease her…she pointed the creature’s nose directly towards open fields and gave the signal for ‘gallop’. As the wind rushed at her and the speed increased to an impossible flash, she knew for certain, she had been right to search for Peggy…right to know she existed.

Her mother’s words resounded in Olivia’s mind – “Most girls are happy with a pony! Why must you fool yourself with this fantasy? …this silly legend?”

Because I knew different, she thought, digging her heels into Peggy’s flanks and feeling the creature obediently spread two, white wings around the custom-made saddle. I knew there was one that could fly….

Woman and beast rose then, into the crimson sky…and it was anyone’s guess where their morning ride would take them.

For Lydia, who inspired this tale, by being everything 'Peggy' is not!

Love...and Coffee.

2010-01-14T16:06:00.002Z

Hot and addictive...and bitter when cold.

Caffeine

Filter the coffee
bring it over here
lie down with me a while,
ignore the chill of the
kitchen tiles
creeping
across your skin.
Turn your body to answer mine
open your eyes
and let me in; for I need a favour now.
I have to ask you to forget,
not to remember this kiss,
not to let it
crawl
inside of you.
Don't recall where
you passed your hands
and leave
where we danced
early
on Saturday mornings
far behind.
Don't let your soul yawn,
hunger, yearn,
for what it cannot have.
Be thankful for the dream, my love,
scalding
in your china cup, but sip it now,
and let
the caffeine wake you up.

For the Prince...

2010-01-12T12:32:00.001Z

I have noted that my muse's recent obsession with the fairytale genre has mostly produced pieces from the point of view of a rather pessimistic princess character! The poor prince has been taking a battering & has never once uttered a word in his own defence! So...without further ado, I thought I ought to stand up for said prince...because honestly, he ain't half bad when you get to know him!

Staying with the fairytale theme a moment...

Prince

Did you hear me singing, prince?
From the window of my prison?
And did I so touch your heart,
that you came back again
to listen?
I sing to pass my solitude,
and comb my hair by multitudes
in readiness, sweet valiant saviour,
for they told me,
one day,
you would come.

And now, the untitled tales of true princes...perhaps influenced by Shakespeare?

*Untitled*

than water spirits
you and I are no better
we are but one fool
a lone moon in a sky sugared with
far too many sweet stars
but this is the summer of our love my king
and they will not take it
for if madmen laugh at us
yet will we go dancing in the spring grass
and along the beautiful byways of lust
to the daylight of heaven
and the diamond paradise
of the night that calls us.

*Untitled*

It's the way your soul glows
as I stroke the precious velvet
that is you.
Beautiful. Not a term applied
often,
to the stronger sex.
But it suits you.
The way you look when you're sleeping
is the reason, for everything,
and I wouldn't sacrifice this moment,
this night; you,
to save the world.
It wouldn't
be worth it.

See? They're not all bad... ;-)

Finally, a little thought on the poetry of admiration where the subject is male...definitely inspired by Shakespeare's sonnets, which some scholars are convinced, described his patron, the Earl of Pembroke:

It Is Not Usual

"It is not usual!"
my forefathers cry
"For you
to write for your love.
How,"
they ask
"will you compare him;
as Shakespeare or Donne
to the petals of a red, red rose
or the rays of the morning sun?"

"Then it is fitting," I reply.
"I shall not compare.
For he,
is incomparable."

"How,"
I ask
"may you tell me
that I should not write for him?
Well I know that he is no rose,
but more precious in my eyes
and more worthy of poetry;
despite his sex;
than I."

So...'The Muse' is currently obsessed with fairytales...

2010-01-11T17:43:00.000Z

Sorry! I can't seem to shake this theme at the moment! I must get my nose back in the Complete Works of Shakespeare and leave the fairytale analysis alone... But before I do, here's one for the road!

Fairytale

There is nothing more forgiving,
more entwined with daily living and dying
and the frantic crying out we do
to those from whom,
ever so repeatedly,
we find ourselves apart.

There is nothing colder,
out there alone
than the jaded wisdom,
of other broken hearts…

My mother said I’d find this
someday;
I’d meet someone like you.
But I’ve met, not one, but many fools,
over again,
each the same,
and I know how this ends,
I know the way you twist and bend
all that’s good and safe
til nothing is the same as once
it was. I have met many a frog

and I know this: princes don’t exist.
They’re frightened knights,
every one
sent into battle far too young,
and clueless,
and the world is ruthless, for no one tells them,
all they really have to fight for
is us.

Okay...I promise to go read Shakepeare now... ;-)

News Flash! #Fridayflash Inspires Poetry Blog Post!

2010-01-08T22:12:00.002Z

There follows a poem I've been meaning to post here for a while, but had previously felt might be a little twisted and...erm...'raw', for some tastes! However, after reading a recent #Fridayflash story by FutureNostalgic, entitled 'A Rude Awakening' -

http://future-nostalgic.blogspot.com/2010/01/fridayflash-rude-awakening.html

- I found myself reminded of said poem. It occurred to me that the two pieces, although entirely different in tone and meaning, share themes and imagery, and thus, I thought now might be the time to dig it out and get away with posting it! So...the hell with the consequences! I hope you enjoy it! :)

Bitten

"At some point,
you'll have to stop me,"
you said
before you sank your teeth in.
"You'll have to rein me back
if you don't
want
to give me
everything."

But
I felt you bite then.
I felt you drink.
I felt
your poison
flowing
beneath my skin.
And I had never
quite
felt anything like that
nor witnessed such a
violent
beautiful
act
exacted any
better way.

"Bite," I groaned,
my voice a breathless
gasp, "again", a clear
addict after just one taste,
and thereafter none
but your demon's blood
cursed my blessed veins.
"Call my name," I begged, a sound
like shattered glass
and we fast rolled, like animals,
into the dust
to lie there, both uf us clawing
and bleeding
and turning the earth red
with lust.

By way of a 'thank you' to Sam (FutureNostalgic) for the inspiration to post 'Bitten', I also post the following piece, which was directly inspired by the main character's experience in 'A Rude Awakening' -

Birth

He bore me
in a filthy alley -
my king, my saviour,
my sire;
he took my life upon
his own
whimsical
moment of desire -
He bit, he drank,
his blackened heart stank
of the vile
vitriol of his existence -
and in that instant,
I became
(as he was) -
a deadened thing,
dirty and unclean,
without a scene or a
sound;
he took me on
pound for pound
and cursed my gentle, human soul until
I lay
lifeless and still and destined only,
to rise again
in the lonely moonlight of old.

#Fridayflash - Rapunzel

2010-01-07T23:54:00.001Z

After writing the modern tale of Rapunzel in verse for last week's #fridayflash, here's how I think it would go in prose...

“Help!” She called, leaning as far out of the bedroom window as she dare, her eyes darting wildly in search of someone to assist her. “Please, heeeeeeelp! Somebody?!” Her panic was so great that she barely noticed the large, white truck pulling up at the curb below.

“Hey!” The occupant of the truck’s cab climbed out, waving his arms above his head to attract her attention as he circled the vehicle and stood on the pavement below. “Hey, you there! What’s the matter?”

“Oh! Oh, thank God!” She leaned on the window ledge with one hand, the other poised at her throat to demurely illustrate relief. She stared, wide-eyed, at the figure below, and struck her best ‘damsel-in-distress-type’ pose. “Oh sir, you’ve just got to help me!”

“Hmmm.” The man frowned, and pushed his Stetson back on his forehead, meeting her eyes with difficulty as he squinted in the midday sun. “Why don’t we start with what the problem is before I agree to anything, lady?” His voice was slightly gruff and he had a day and a half’s stubble growth, but he was actually quite attractive. Rude, she thought, but attractive... She held down her natural urge to say something cutting in reply, and smiled sweetly instead.

“ I’m locked in…” She giggled, and dipped her knees, pulling on the ends of her blonde tresses to make herself seem ditsy and young. There was a chance the act would help persuade him to offer assistance. “I’m staying here with my aunt whilst my apartment gets painted, and she’s gone to work. I think she forgot I was here! You see, I was asleep when she left…and she didn't leave me a key…”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” The man's tone was jovial; amused; as he shrugged his shoulders and smirked. “Climb up there and free you from your tower, Rapunzel?” His grin widened at his own joke, but quickly subsided when he realised she wasn’t smiling. “Why can’t you just call her?”

“Oh, of course!” She feigned sudden realisation, then cocked her head at him sarcastically. “Why didn’t I think of that?! Oh, that’s right…" her voice rose an octave in annoyance, "...because my aunt works on an oilrig! She won’t be back for a week!”

“And the police?” His smug grin returned, unfazed, as he hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked up at her from under the brim of his hat. He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t think to call them? Or a locksmith maybe?” She sighed. She hadn’t thought of that, no. Just panicked and…okay, now she felt really stupid. The embarrassment flared her temper.

“There’s no money in the house for a locksmith,” she lied. “Look, are you going to help me or not?” She huffed and flicked her hair back over her shoulder in frustrated defiance.

“Well, maybe if you span those lovely locks into a rope, Rapunzel, I really could climb up there and fetch you down!” He snickered to himself, holding a fist against his mouth to control his laughter, then flashed her a cheeky smile as he reached into his pocket. She wanted to be angry - he was mocking her! - but there was something quite charming about his boyish teasing, and despite herself, she found she was rather enjoying it! “C’mon! Let your hair down, Ra-”

“Stop calling me Rapunzel!” She interrupted, as he continued exploring the inside pocket of his denim jacket. “I assure you, I’m no fairytale princess! The only thing I ever learned to spin was a bottle in high school!” The man stilled abruptly, his eyes slowly finding hers, before he raised an eyebrow, suggestively, in her direction.

“Very interesting!” He said with enthusiasm, retrieving a small, square object she couldn’t quite make out, from his pocket. “So…if not ‘Rapunzel’, what should I call you?” She sighed, somewhat exasperated.

“Emma. Emma Knowles.” She gestured at the object in his hand. “You’re going to smoke now?! Leave me stranded up here whilst you enjoy a cigarette and gloat? You’re very rude! I thought you were going to help me!”

“I’m rude?” He replied, with mock offence. “You didn’t even ask my name yet!” Emma closed her eyes in controlled irritation and pasted on an overly pleasant smile before she opened them again.

“Fine. What’s your name?”

“I’m Jacob Prince, miss.” He tipped his hat with the hand that wasn’t holding the square object. “But you can call me Jake.” Perfect! Emma could hardly believe it. She grinned inwardly, took a deep breath and tried a little quick-wit of her own.

“Well, Jake, now the polite introductions are out of the way, how about you honour that last name of yours and show a little charm and chivalry to a woman in distress?”

“Tell you what, Rapunzel,” Jake smiled, raising the square object to his ear. “I know a guy…I’ll call you a locksmith. It won’t cost you a penny…but once I get you down from there, you’re gonna owe me dinner.”

Emma’s mouth fell open in shock, but inexplicably, she found herself smiling at the thought.

“I hope you cook better than you spin, Rapunzel!” Jake continued, raising that single eyebrow at her again. “But since there’ll be a bottle emptied at dinner…I’m sure I’ll get to see those skills too!”

So...Rapunzel's manipulative & the prince is full of himself...but I still reckon they live happily ever after!

Comparing Scars

2010-01-07T12:00:00.000Z

Kiss me some place
I’ve never been kissed
Come over here now and
Lay your lips on the very last
Scar
Created
For every other place is taken
Every spot utterly sated
And worn out by the last

Every part but that…

This place
You may cast your breath across
And make it yours at only the cost
Of returning like for like.
Show me the place you’ve never
Been kissed
The part that was changed last time
And has missed
The hot-mouthed caress of a healing ghost
Ever since.

The Whispers of Valour

2010-01-06T00:46:00.000Z

The whispers came when you slept,
but they were whispers only
to you.
For me
(and our neighbours)
they were
moments of truth outside
your armoured charade.
The only instants in which you
faced
the demons you'd brought home.

And I blamed you for their presence,
you know
in my moments of love
and the days of storms;
for your nights
beating out
those visions of torment,
until we could
no longer prevent
what was coming.

We never spoke of it;
you and I;
instead we smiled, politely,
and made small talk
in a railway carriage
on a day when the sky
had never been
so blue
and we could not
deny
that to discuss the weather
was just as pleasant
as ever it had been before.

It was a meeting of minds;
a decision,
but not of hearts anymore.
Those we closed the door upon,
(like your screaming)
until it was over.

I wouldn't miss you,
and you wouldn't write,
you'd face each loud, infernal night,
all bombs and fire-fights,
without me
to cling to
and you'd be brave

And I would close my eyes
and crave
the man I used to know
as I listened alone
to the wheels on the tracks
having sent you back
to the viper's nest
that stung you,
stole you,
and spawned your horror.

And this, my love,
is what you and I,
would come to know,
as 'valour'.

Dedicated to all who love, or have loved, a soldier.

Not Quite A #Fridayflash - A Modern Fairytale in Verse

2010-01-01T21:54:00.001Z

I'm not feeling very inspired where prose is concerned this week, so I thought, rather than force a story, I'd post a poetic modernisation of a traditional fairytale for #fridayflash. I don't think it strictly qualifies as 'telling a story', so I won't be putting it in the collector, but I hope it's enjoyed nonetheless. The poem is a revision of the tale of Rapunzel...and I suppose, more a critique of modern expectations!

The Old Fairytale...

For those whose memories of the nursery fail them, in the original tale, the baby Rapunzel is locked in a tower by an evil enchantress as retribution for food stolen by her father from the witch's garden. Rapunzel's eventual rescue from the tower frees her into the world for the first time, through marriage to a rich, handsome prince. She lures this prince to her rescue (the hussy!) with the following qualities - beauty, virginity, a stunning talent for song, and expert spinning skills (specifically, the ability to make rope with her own hair...charming!). Oh, and post-marriage, Rapunzel also turns out to be capable of multiple births without remote damage to her figure (she was surely the witch!).

In return for all this loveliness, Rapunzel's prince must prove his courage, virility and martial skill by fighting for her. He essentially earns Rapunzel by enduring various physical trials and suffering permanently maiming wounds in the process (attention-seeker!). Needless to say, the prince proves himself a formidable warrior and rescues Rapunzel, winning her love. She proves herself beautiful on the inside as well as out and weds him despite his blindness, suffered in pursuit of her. Then, of couse, the two live happily ever after.

These characters, I'm sure, held useful lessons for the children of 15th-century gentlefolk. The tale of Rapunzel taught attainment and rags-to-riches aspiration in the society they'd grow up to join, providing they were brave or pure...but I think the legacies of these characters probably need updating for today’s audience! You see, though their examples are now all but impossible to achieve, Rapunzel and the prince are, from time to time, still to be found setting the bar for modern folk! And it only leads to confusion all round when neither Rapunzels or princes turn out as the fairytale predicts... So, I reckon, it's time we got things straight!

The Poetic Update:

Walls (The Modern Tale of Rapunzel)

"You ask too much of me –"
said the girl from her high pedestal
"Be honest
Be loving
Be faithful
And so
be not surprised
if I fall at the first hurdle."

"You make it sound so easy,
but I’m
no butterfly, no daisy,
none so delicate
I am
pre-claimed
territory."

"Nothing passes unchallenged there –
your fingers on my soul, you see, are different
to your fingers
in my hair."

"History screams from my every pore -
an enchantress to keep you from
a door that does not exist beyond a crown
of thistles
there to encircle and protect
my skin of bricks and mortar.
And it is going to take much more
Than water
to wash away these walls."

"Try words", Rapunzel called down from her tower,
"Try fire."
And the prince below her
looked puzzled
and scratched his head.

Maybe I'll re-write 'Walls' in prose as my #fridayflash for next week?! :)

#Fridayflash - A Christmas Truce

2009-12-24T21:04:00.005Z

My #fridayflash this week is also a Christmas gift for a very dear friend, whom I have to credit and thank, among countless other things, for the character of Captain Nefarious Deeds. I swore to him a long time ago that one day I would release Capt. N.D. and P.J.R on the world and make us a fortune...well, here goes nothing!

'A Christmas Truce' -

From The Chronicles of Capt. N.D. & P.J.R.

When she felt the first missile explode behind her on the deck of The Golden Cutlass, Princess Jolly-Rogered of the Isle of the Seventh Sea was truly livid. It was almost Christmas! He had promised her, faithfully, given his word! There would be a truce over the festive period, and from a man of such reputation and standing as the great Captain Nefarious Deeds, one had a right to expect that his word would be kept! There was such a thing as honour, even among pirates!

She turned on deck, a look like death in her eyes, and met his, mocking her from the balustrade of his own vessel, The Grinning Skull, as he drew it alongside The Golden Cutlass.

“Captain,” she said, feigning sweetness, as she tipped the three-cornered hat she was accustomed to wearing, politely, in his direction. “I warn you now, I will spare no effort in returning fire if you do not desist. Your actions are in clear breach of the Christmas Truce.”

The Captain threw back his head and laughed deeply at her bravado, his hands set on his narrow hips and one, booted foot resting high on the ship’s railings.

“Oh, but my dear Princess, I disagree.” He smirked, cocking his head patronizingly, as though he pitied her impending fate. “We agreed a truce, purely to allow our men below decks to make merry! I made no promise of my own engagement in such base customs.”

With that, he reached down beside himself and came up with another missile. Grunting with effort, the Captain hurled it on to the deck of the Golden Cutlass, where an explosion shattered it into a thousand pieces, several of which narrowly missed the Princess.

With a little squeal, Princess Jolly-Rogered dove behind the nearest barrel of rum, taking a moment to catch her breath. That was close! There was no denying it; the Captain had a good aim. She stretched her hand around the side of the barrel behind which she sheltered, felt for her own missile, and drew it to close to her chest. But so do I!

Squeezing the projectile in her hands, she stood swiftly and unleashed it, sending it crashing across the deck of the Grinning Skull. The Captain had to move promptly to avoid its path, but hopped away, unscathed, with all the grace of a galley cat.

Annoyed, the Princess retreated behind the barrel again, as a tirade of missiles flew back in return, smashing into her makeshift shield. They came so thick and fast that she was sure the Captain must have had hours to prepare them. Pieces exploded continuously over the top of the barrel and showered down on her head, or skittered around it, spraying at her feet. She gathered her own missiles as quickly as she could, reaching around the barrel, and stood periodically, when she dared risk unleashing them on the opposing ship!

The Princess’s strategy, she told herself, was quality, not quantity. Her missiles were bigger than the Captain’s. She only had to hit him once, squarely, and she was sure he would give up.

This in mind, she hurled another huge projectile at the Grinning Skull, with every ounce of strength she could muster, and dove back behind her barrel to listen for its heavy explosion. A yelp told her it had skimmed its target, but the Captain was undeterred, and her action was met with a second wave of frequent, smaller missiles.

Princess Jolly-Rogered felt her blood boil as the Captain’s assault showered her with shrapnel again. Mustering courage from her irritation, she lobbed a few small pellets of her own, to occupy the Captain as she prepared a gigantic missile. Should it hit him, it would surely put an end to the skirmish.

And then it stopped. There were no more missiles from the Grinning Skull for at least a minute and a half. Did I hit him? The Princess smirked wickedly at the thought. With one of those little things?! Her heart soared. Of course I bloody hit him! I’m not captain of this ship for nothing! In her excitement, she forgot herself and stood, prepared to gloat gleefully at the Captain’s fate. She scanned the deck of the Grinning Skull, but he was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes narrowed, the trick dawning on her, and she turned, panicked, but it was too late. The Captain stood up at the opposite side of her barrel-shield. She moved, but his arm shot out, grabbing a handful of the front of her shirt.

The Princess squealed as Captain Nefarious Deeds pushed her back against the tall mast of her own ship, his knuckles pressing on her collarbone, and a menacing look in his eyes.

“Captain, please!” She protested. “Our truce?! Tomorrow is Christmas Day!”

Grinning, he raised his arm with what was surely another missile in his leather-gloved hand, and poised it, just above her head. The Princess cringed, making herself small in his grip, waiting for the cold, hard force of the blow. He leaned closer, smirking. The Princess closed her eyes and…the Captain kissed her, firmly, right on the mouth!

Princess Jolly-Rogered was incensed! Her mouth fell open and she raised her chin, meaning to quip something scathing…and then she spotted what he had been holding above her head. If it was possible, her temper flared hotter. Fucking mistletoe?! The Captain smirked.

“Where, my dear,” he said, “would be the fun in a Christmas Truce?”

She shoved him hard then, raising her back off the cold rugby post, and making sure her friend landed squarely on his back in the snow. Payback! Nice and wet and cold!

He lay there a moment, and the university pals stared at one another, unsure if the game was over. She wiped the mock anger and defiance from her face, along with the remnants of countless snowballs.

“Well, at least it wasn’t mud this time?” He grinned, raising an eyebrow. She laughed.

“True,” she said. “But I’m just as cold and wet!”

“Enough pirates for today?” He asked, holding out a hand for her to help him up. She took it, pulled, and swung an arm around his waist as they began to walk across the snow-covered sports pitch.

“Enough pirates!” She agreed. “I’m not in the mood for rum! How about a pint instead?”

Happy Christmas, Captain! With love, as always, P.J.R. x x x

Call of the Wild Inside

2009-12-20T18:18:00.001Z

This poem was written for an exercise, entitled 'The Feast', for a meeting of the Leeds Writers' Group. The Muse was lacking that week and so I found myself drawing on my library for inspiration!

I had been re-reading Jack London's The Call of the Wild (1903), a story written from the point of view of Buck, a wild dog who is taken from his home and forced to become an Alaskian sled dog. The dog subsequently becomes vicious from mistreatment and is saved by the love of a human. However, upon his master's death, Buck gives in to his inner wildness and joins a wolf pack.

I had also been reminded that week, of a German fairytale I'd heard as a child. I cannot quite remember the name of the tale, but seem to think it might have been something like 'The Elfreig' or 'The Elf King'? This is a story in which young women who catch sight of elves in the woods are compelled to dance themselves to the point of exhaustion, and eventual death, in a fairy-ring. They know of the dangers, yet curiosity ensures, the girls cannot help but look!

These two influences seemingly left a mixture of thoughts and feelings behind, concerning things that try to condition us out of being who and what we really are, and the very human temptations of our inner animal...its wildness, its curiosity, and its innate penchant for knowing what is 'wrong', and wanting to do it anyway!

Call of the Wild Inside

“The hunger,” he said,
as he walked in robes beside me,
“is a thing never sated.
One may learn to abate it, or
ignore it,
but never to escape it
for want, nor war, nor lovers.
One may walk a thousand steps with others
or swim alone a thousand seas
and still, he,
will hunger,
ever after,
for the feast.”

“What feast is this?” I asked,
as we passed through trees and woods and by the gentle brooks
of the fairytales of my youth.
“Of food,” he said, “Of nourishment,
of tender flesh,
of truth,
of lips and heaven scent…
A man may spend each penny earned,
turn
all gold over
to childhood pixies
and the elfin folk of yore,
eat of fairy-rings and sugar-lace wings a day or two or more,
and still,
he will hunger.”

We reached a pool, a clearing then,
and the elf king -
He fell to his knees.
I cowered there beside him, beneath the canopy of leaves,
and he showed to me in the mirror of the water
a chained wolf who longed for the slaughter,
who howled with the depths of ravenous pangs,
whose ribs stood out and fangs dripped,
as he cried,
baying,
with pitiful longing,
at the palest of silver moons.

“For she…”
He said, to my eyes. “For you…he
will always hunger.”

Forbidden Fruit - Born of 'The Feast'

2009-12-20T17:25:00.000Z

I've been having a bit of a dry spell regarding poetry of late (the last three posts to this blog are all...*checks birth certifcate to confirm own identity* ...prose of the flash fiction variety!). I was beginning to worry...

However, my hand was finally forced last week, out of the need to compose something on the topic of 'The Feast' for a meeting of the Leeds Writers' Group. I duly sat down and composed, somewhere during the act of which, The Muse suddenly recalled he had a home in my head! And it seems now, that The Muse will be staying for Christmas, as ever since he arrived home, he has been spring-cleaning the back-log of poetry from my brain...here's what he chose to throw out this week:

Forbidden Fruit

If time could be eaten and moonlight drunk,
from the lucid waters of springs and fire,
with such lonely implements
as the lapping tongues of roe deer,
then you, and I, my love, might appear
to feast upon
many strange and wonderful fruits.

But time is not
like that at all. It halts, stalls,
as you do when you seek to lay
hands and eyes and words upon me.
And no fruit is found here, but for fear
of rot and horror and loss
of all things yet
uncovered and cast
into life’s sweet bank as payment.

So keep your hands
and eyes, my friend,
to their ready-made
acquaintance,
and seek only to become accustomed
to the pathway lain before you.
For as much as I may want, my dear,
as you want,
and may be the fuel of your furnace,
these words will not be spoken,
nor touches exchanged,
nor kisses,
for neither you nor I, sweet coward,
are brave enough to risk this.

#Fridayflash - Night Feeds

2009-12-18T01:59:00.003Z

The shrill sound pierced the night air, dragging him, reluctantly, from the kind of thick, black sleep, one could only enjoy after working a double shift. Aidan lingered a moment in twilight, before layered veils of consciousness fell away, and he awoke to find his wife’s arm still draped limply across his chest. Sarah’s breath was deep and even beside him, her body heavy and still, and he wondered, as she slept peacefully on, if perhaps he had dreamed the noise. When seconds passed without the high-pitched assault taxing his tired brain further, he willingly accepted this analysis.

Turning his head, Aidan breathed Sarah’s warm scent deep into his lungs, and was immediately soothed by it, welcoming the return of rest. His eyes closed contentedly…and bounced open again when the pitiful howls recommenced…this time, persisting. He sighed, the most animated and exasperated sigh he could muster, but despite her close proximity to him, Sarah didn’t flinch. It was no use…she hadn’t heard it. The baby was crying, and once again, she had slept right through it.

He rolled from under Sarah’s arm and the blanket of quiet and warmth offered by their bed, trying hard not to be angry. It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about the baby before she arrived…well, mostly Sarah had talked about the baby. It had been Sarah who really wanted one, but still, they had agreed beforehand that all responsibilities would be shared. They had tried to be sensible about it; planned the baby’s arrival, timed it, been sure they were both ready… But now that Bella was here, there was no getting away from it, Sarah just wasn’t pulling her weight. Apparently, Aidan’s wife wasn’t nearly as maternal as she’d thought!

He scowled resentfully as the tiled kitchen floor chilled his bare feet, but the sound of helpless, hungry, cries emanating from the smallest bedroom, forced him to the fridge to retrieve the milk. He was cold, he realised. He’d been reluctant to leave the warmth of his bed. Perhaps the baby was cold too? On his way to the bedroom, he took a warm blanket from the shelf above the hot water tank in the airing cupboard.

Bella’s big green eyes met his as he pushed open the bedroom door, her howls immediately ceasing at the sight of him, and the sight of her melting his heart.

“Were you lonely?” he whispered, bending over and reaching to stroke the baby’s head as she trilled and cooed contentedly in her bed. “Were you cold?” Putting his fingers to the baby’s neck, just under her chin, he tested her temperature. She felt warm, but another blanket couldn’t hurt. Reaching into her bed, he retrieved the ticking clock Bella liked to sleep with and made sure it was still wrapped and padded, before tucking the extra blanket up around her shoulders. Finally, he poured a little milk into the bowl beside her bed.

Bella stretched her neck out from under her new, warm blanket and lapped at the creamy liquid. Aidan smiled ruefully and massaged the tiny kitten with the flat of his thumb, just behind her left ear.

“There’s no way Sarah and I are ever having kids,” he told her, as Bella pushed her soft head against his hand. “If you’re anything to judge by, I’d be on permanent night-feeding duty!”

#Fridayflash - Window Shopping

2009-12-10T23:45:00.003Z

“I like that one,” Jennifer said shyly, almost ashamed of herself for acknowledging it. It definitely wasn’t the sort of thing she’d normally go for. She pointed discreetly, keeping her hand close to her body, so her friend Abigail would become aware of the target, but the rest of the world wouldn’t see. Jennifer flushed just thinking about the possibility of someone else seeing her interest in it. She would be so embarrassed if a stranger noticed her pointing…what would they think?! Would they assume she’d usually be drawn to something like that? Heaven forbid!

“That one?!” Abigail squinted at it, rather too obviously. “I don’t know, Jen…it’s not your usual sort of thing, is it? It’s got a bit of a dishevelled look about it. But then again, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with something different…a bit of variety is always healthy! It is a tad untidy looking…but I think that’s kind of…well…interesting!”

“You don’t like it, do you?” Jennifer said, eyeing her friend with mock sadness and just a smidge of genuine shame. “You think I’ve got weird taste!”

“Honey, I’ve known you a long time, I’ve seen your previous choices. I saw what you finally chose for the wedding last autumn! I know you’ve got weird taste!”

“Hey!” Jennifer nudged her friend playfully. “I happen to think I chose very well for the wedding! Alright then, which one do you like?” Abigail looked around the room, narrowing her eyes again as she scouted for, then settled upon, her prey. Naturally, it was the brightest, most feral-looking thing in sight. Neatly cut, but almost offensively present, it matched her somewhat predatory personality…it was a wild-looking thing indeed!

“That one!” She declared, much too loudly and eagerly for Jennifer’s liking, bouncing up and down a couple of times on her kitten heels with excitement. “That would look so good on me!” Jennifer grabbed Abigail’s hand and yanked her friend’s pointing finger back to her side.

“Abby!”

“What?! Oh, look Jen…I know this isn’t the sort of place we’d usually come to. But this is a special event! We’re celebrating still being who we are…despite recent…um… ‘changes of circumstance’. We can still have fun, you know?! It is allowed! Tonight we get to pick out anything we like! Any price bracket, any size, any colour combination! We’re not buying, remember? We’re just window shopping!” Abby flashed her wicked smile. “Maybe we’ll even hold a few items up against us! See how they look when we dance?” She spotted Jennifer’s worried look. “But we’re not going to try any on, I swear!”

Jennifer smiled, and felt herself succumbing to her friend’s enthusiasm. Abby was right, there was no harm in looking, even if you could no longer afford to buy. Locking eyes, the women smirked devilishly and wriggled their still-shiny wedding rings from their fingers, dropping them into tiny handbags. Abigail took a deep breath, straightened her short, black dress and grabbed Jennifer’s hand, tugging her across the bar.

“C’mon!” She encouraged, making a beeline for the group of guys containing ‘Wild Thing’. “Let’s go talk to that one!”

#Fridayflash - A Tale of the Future

2009-12-04T13:03:00.001Z

I don't usually like rhyming poetry all that much, and I rarely write it, but since I'm travelling back from The Netherlands to the UK today and haven't found much time in the second week of my holiday for #fridayflash, I decided to dig this one out! I wrote this about ten years ago, whilst I was still at school, and sent it off to be considered for a publisher's anthology. I didn't expect to hear anything...but to my surprise, it was, in fact, selected! Since it tells a tale of the future, I thought it might be suitable for today's #fridayflash... enjoy!

Control Tower Broadcast: Houston; Plutonic Colony - 2340AD

"Houston, we have a problem,
Request permission to land."
"Negative, Number Thirty-two
The station is unmanned."
"Houston, this is Captain Black,
The ship was hit on the left
At the back."
"Thirty-two, this is Houston Tower,
There's a gap in the pattern in
About an hour."
"Negative, Houston! Our missiles are low
We are taking fire and can only fly slow!"
"This is Houston, Thirty-two,
There are other ships worse off than you.
For as long as you're able, hold them back
Landing permission denied, Captain Black!
Defend our planet; it's the only one left;
Our species has destroyed the rest!"
"Houston, we read you, loud and clear,
We just can't save them all -
Only those who've paid their way,
This planet is too small."
"That's the spirit, Thirty-two,
Only the best on Pluto will do,
If we are to survive this time
I'm afraid we have to draw the line."
"Affirmative, Houston,
Pluto is ours! We are using back-up power."
"Commendable bravery, Thirty-two,
See you in about an hour."

Nothing Important Happened Today

2009-12-02T11:52:00.001Z

Below is my offering for the exercise leading up to this week's meeting of the Leeds Writers' Group. The set task was to write a character interaction without using dialogue...or any other form of speech. The characters could not make a sound, yet the audience must understand what has happened.

I decided to use the following poem as my exemplar, but wondered if writing one character's thought process as an unspoken monologue might just be cheating a little?! I concluded it probably was, but then, I didn't really care...because I wanted to write this piece!

The Inspiration

On 4th July 1776, King George III added one line to his personal diary. That line read: 'Nothing important happened today.' This has since been quoted by many historians, novelists and screen writers, in order to illustrate how 'out of touch' the king must have been with current affairs...The 4th July 1776 was, after all, the day that the US Declaration of Independence was signed.

However, it occurred to me that King George III had not, as is often thought, failed to notice the events of that day. He had simply decided to find them unimportant... Or he had not yet received word of the development. Either way, it didn't really matter... at that stage of the American Revolution, there was little King George could do to influence its outcome... As far as he was concerned, nothing had changed that day...nothing important anyway...

The Poem

Here is my interpretation of King George III's famous diary entry; and of something akin to the helpless situation he must have found himself in when he wrote it:

Nothing Important Happened Today

I have nothing important to say.
Though I've plenty of words.
You see, I can say nothing to stop what's coming;
To halt the drowning,
Keep us running, and so,
I've nothing important to say.

You're not listening anyway,
Not really.
You're unimportantly packing a box
With CDs and socks and teacups
And no words could make you stop
So I've nothing important to say.

You're at the door now,
You...and the box...
And you don't look back.
You pause, and breathe,
But you don't stop.
You don't turn back and fix it with kisses
Or smiling, promise by tomorrow to miss me
And come home.
So there's nothing important to say.

The door closes behind you.
Nothing important happened today.

#Fridayflash - A Dangerous Race

2009-11-27T11:07:00.002Z

He stared around the ruined space, knowing he would have trouble explaining what had happened. It wouldn’t do him any good to lie about it. They would surely see the truth now, and the truth would, of course, have to start with her… He shook his head in desperation, trying to clear the ringing in his ears and the black clouds that filled his consciousness. How did one go about putting this truth into words?

He dragged his fingers, still bloody from the broken glass, through the thick ash that covered the floor. His black cuff trailed in the powdery substance that used to be wood. He had come here to pray to their God; to see if He was truly listening to all living things. He had spoken to the emaciated form hanging on the cross above their altar, but had received no comfort, no answers… He hadn’t meant to get so angry at the silence, but sometimes it was just too hard to keep control...

* * *

She rolled over in bed and stretched out her hand into the cold space beside her. Where was he? She knew she wouldn’t sleep until he got here…especially not with them lurking out there. The news reports were now saying they'd been planning this for years; long before last Tuesday’s influx…that they'd probably been here since at least the 1970s…observing, learning…plotting. The BBC had even reported deliberate spies being sent amongst them, to settle with decent people, to marry and breed and carve out lives for themselves in preparation for the mass immigration that was now taking place.

Her blood boiled when she thought about that…how her people had been watched by them. No doubt they were watching for weaknesses and vulnerabilities, so they could take over her land and run things their way! Well, there was no way she was going to succumb to it! She didn’t care how many of them there were! So what if they became the majority population?! Everyone knew they were a dangerous race…that they did evil things when angered…she could not, would not, live under a belief system, political or religious, that advocated that!

And the little half-breeds…the children of the poor families infiltrated…which way would they lean? They were probably the most dangerous of all…trusted by neither race. She shuddered, hearing the shattering of glass outside…oh God, who had upset one of them now? How many more of her kind had met a violent end to soothe the wrath of one of them? It couldn’t go on like this…the deeper their anger, the more devastating and destructive the consequences. There had already been fires, plane crashes, bombs and building collapses…and there would be a war, she could feel it. Sirens wailed in the street outside and the formation of a chattering, baying crowd could be heard. Where was he?! She definitely wouldn’t sleep until he was home.

* * *

He picked himself up off the ground, brushing the ash from his clothes and darted through a hole in the ruined wall. Perhaps he could lie after all? The fire had taken a pretty good hold after the collapse. Any evidence had surely burned, and he didn’t think anyone had seen him. Maybe it wouldn’t be necessary to explain...

The crowd had gathered quickly around the collapsed church, drawn by the noise and dust, but they had not been interested in his shadowy, fleeing form. They were too anxious, too outraged by their notion of what had taken place there.

They were digging through the rubble now; searching for a priest they were sure had been in his vestry when the building came down. They were likely right, and the thought of the possibly injured man troubled him somewhat. He considered helping them, but he barely trusted the fragile stability of his mood…he still felt agitated, volatile; helping could do more harm than good. And besides, he had to get home. She would be waiting…worrying…she could never sleep until he was there...

* * *

She felt his warmth against her back and his arms snake around her, even before she heard him. She sighed in relief and caught his hand in hers. Drawing it to her mouth, she kissed his fingers and tasted something metallic…blood?! Brick dust clung to her lips and panic gripped her.

“I heard it…” she said, her voice wavering with worry. “What happened out there? You promised me you wouldn’t get involved.”

“I know.” He said, his voice quiet, but steady and unapologetic. “But a church came down on Parlour Street and some people thought there might be a priest inside…”

“Bastards!” She fumed. “Have they no shame? A church?! A priest, for Christ's sake?! How can they believe their gods will reward them for this?!” He sighed.

“They don’t believe that.” He told her. “Not all of them.”

“Of course they do, they’re evil.” She said, wearily. “And I’m tired of it! Why should we all have to keep them happy so they don’t try to kill us every five minutes?! There’s going to be a war anyway, so I say the sooner, the better! It’s about time someone put them in their place!”

“Attitudes like that will lead to a war, for sure.” He answered, squeezing her gently, but there was no chastisement in his tone and, she found, his rationality was more comforting than irking. “I just think we misunderstand them sometimes. They’re not all bad.” He felt her smile then.

“You see, that’s what I love about you.” She said, almost dreamily. “If you’d been closer tonight, when that church came down, you could have been hurt…or killed…but still, you want to find something redeeming in them. You want to see the good in everyone. I love that.” Her words caused a thick blanket of calm to fall over him, and he felt a sudden, fiery warmth in his chest.

“It’s not about seeing the good in everyone,” he told her. “It’s about acknowledging it in yourself. I can’t hate them, because I don’t believe most of them want to hurt us. Sure…terrible things seem to happen when they’re angry, but I think those things are mostly accidental. They’re capable of a lot of good too.”

“Such as…?” She said, sceptically.

“Well,” he whispered, teasingly. “Have you ever seen one of them in love?” She shook her head. “I wish you could…” he smiled and kissed her shoulder. “They glow…it’s amazing.”

She sighed, unconvinced, but he felt her relax into him as she settled down to sleep, and he drew her back, more tightly, against himself. Even as the bony spines protruding from his vertebrae; the remnants of his anger in the church; were still fading to rounded bumps, he was glad of her body pressed so closely against his. It dulled the light that glittered, brightly, in his chest. No matter how often he prayed, or to which gods, he knew, he would never be rid of it. Like having curly hair, it was something he’d inherited. His father had been known to glow upon sight of his mother too…

A Story in Poetry

2009-11-20T15:58:00.001Z

A tale, from middle to middle, in verse. The beginnings of these tales often cannot be remembered...and their ends often cannot be seen...

The Hunted

There is safety in being the hunted,
Long hidden behind tall grass,
In knowing and expecting
Life
to translate as
Attack.
He stalks me silently,
My hunter,
From the safest place I know,
Creeping from dark corners
of our neat, suburban home.
His eyes track me
in the kitchen
and though he's wearing
different clothes;
clearly a wolf now
less the lamb I used to
know him by
his softness and his gentle, contented bleat
Now where once were cloven hooves
claws exude his feet.
And he licks his lips and follows me
My hunter, to the stairs,
Snapping at my retreating back
Holding tight, allowing slack,
He bats me back and forth,
The mouse,
The cat.
The play resumes
and culminates
in the upstairs rooms,
a final blow,
the fall,
the pounce,
the crushing pressure of every
stone, pound, ounce,
He holds me,
my captor,
and I don't struggle,
let it be.
I don't bide my time and wait
For sleeping vulnerability,
To burst forth and exploit
My opportunity,
For being so long in chains I've grown
Accustomed, admittedly,
and as much as change is welcome,
my freedom frightens me.
I lie still and breathe
until I'm sure he will not see
and sliding silently to the back door,
where I may taste the air,
I mind my leash
Lest I should yank it on the stairs.

Beautiful Dawn

2009-11-16T22:41:00.000Z

There is beauty in souls subdued
in lights turned out
and the rythym of life reduced
to something so basic and true as
the sound of heartbeats
and gentle breath
and weightless minds troubled by less than life's
ordinary woes.

There is clarity in all the holes
in all our veils exposed
when the curtains are drawn
in the time between rest and morning
when our eyes see all, but still,
are closed.

We roll
and in the half-light
all at once we have better sight
through heavy lashes and blankets of sleep
than ever we might
hope to achieve
by day.

For from under our rumpled,
tangled hair,
from beneath our dream-drenched sheets,
we allow ourselves the most sacred of peeks,
a revered chance,
to peel back the covers and
catch sight of one another
in the only moment we know to be real;
to gaze upon rare beauty
stunningly
fleetingly
revealed.

First Love

2009-11-16T22:11:00.000Z

My first love
will always be the thrill of it
the hunt, the chase, the kill,
the remit,
the growling and grabbing and purring
at one another
until the inevitable.

My first love
will always be
the feel of my teeth in flesh
and the blessed satisfaction
of the bloodless demise
of my
chosen
lion
For whom I forsake my pride.

The protection of my
fellow
lionesses
is less than nothing
in wild comparison
to the raw and savage passion,
that drives me across the plains
to tempt you to a watering hole
and there to hold
you down
and cut your mane.

The Grandfather Clock

2009-11-16T20:25:00.000Z

I hold out my hand in the hall
And let you take it
For old time's sake
For a time when I could think of
Nothing
But your skin
And mine
Our painted faces, gilt edging, our cases,
The silk of them.
But polished wood is paper now
Thin and dry - old glory...
And it makes my soul chime anew,
In anguish,
Beating a familiar story,
To-ing and fro-ing where our flesh meets,
Striking long and low
And I know
I am certain,
I'm sure,
I can find new depths of Westminster melancholy
In the lamp-light and the evenly ticking knowledge
That I don't want you anymore.
And I leave you, wound and chiming,
As I close the bevelled glass door.

Ashes

2009-11-16T20:00:00.000Z

I have no more been near it
For so much time than I have
drawn closer to it in hunger
And headed this way and that
In search of it much longer
And tried to lose myself, I admit,
In forests and amongst desolate dunes,
To be sure of learning every which way to forget
And forgetting every way to remember
How burned and acrid smoking embers
Have been known to reignite
Themselves
To smoulder only when and if the conditions
shall be perfect, and yet
To smoulder nonetheless.
In truth, yes, I have wondered
Every which way,
How not to look back and question:
If we stoked our embers, darling,
Did we stoke them to the last
Glowing glimmer
Of charred and empty hope?
Did we break them into dust?
Or did we leave our beach-fire burning
Slightly, at the onset of our dusk?