Poetry | Stories | Photography
Lips of rose, powdered ivory cheeks,
dark long hair moving as she moved,
eyes of violet ice, mitten coal hands.
She was a flower blooming and dancing
for freedom on the lake that snowy day.
I was only a young, foolish boy watching
the way she moved, captivated, knowing.
Lips of rose turned white, ivory cheeks froze,
dark long hair became still, her eyes closed,
the mittens no longer danced in the snow.
I fled from her stillness, forever running from
that beautiful face I never stopped to love.
Obscured by darkness
Revealed by moonlight
Beauty amongst roses
Ugliness in those eyes
Purring for a night kiss
Lips cold as winter ice
You wake up in terror as a toilet brush dances around you. For some reason you think the torch beside your bed is a gun and that you can kill it; you cannot kill a plastic brush.
Baffled about your predicament, you decide to pull the covers over your head. You can still hear the bristles, and the handle is knocking against your bed frame.
Unsure what to do, you throw the covers off, jump off the bed, and hide in the corner.
The toilet brush gathers momentum, lunges at your face and you scream profanities as you wonder why the toilet brush is tangerine.
In the distance, you hear, “Anna, Anna, wake up!”
Disoriented and sleepy, you say, “Huh, what the! I was having a- huh?”
You partner looks down at you worried, “You had a bad dream-“
“What is that on the Telly!?”
“Anna, don’t worry. It’s only Donald Trump.”
Through tired sobs you say, “I dreamt he was a toilet brush…”
“Huh!?”
The moon’s outline in the sky
tells my body it’s too early for another day.
Trees once danced in numbers,
now sparse; replaced by houses, people.
The wind whistles down from the hills,
moving through my nightie, blowin’ my hair.
Forgotten clouds appear shyly,
creeping closer to the moon, hiding her outline.
The darkness and the light interweave
leaving strange shapes and shadows at dawn.
Whispers from the shadows and the wind
call me back to something known, yet unknown.
I retreat inside, knowing well I should have listened.
Moving in the wind,
the full fabric moves
in this ancient place.
Burning heat sears all,
as the sun burns down
upon this arid land.
Colours of the Earth,
different burnt colours,
not shades to dispute.
No European delicacies
need to remain here,
for the sun burns it all.
Singing moves on the wind,
an ancient song forbidden
to pay tribute to this land.
A tiny finger points
to the sky as
they lift off the ground.
The meadow, distant now;
Hearts pound hard, fast.
Fear mixed with awe.
The small one shows
them the flowers, meadow,
the horizon, beautiful light.
A small finger gently releases
them from the spell of levitation,
as they smile, kiss, hug,
and drink a toast to the special one.
We sit together for tea
with cups, saucers, and
the old willow teapot.
The afternoon sun moves
closer to the end
as the chatter moves on.
Wishing wells and time
come to mind for
many unknown reasons.
The teapot empties
staying that way for a while;
we continue appearances.
A sound from the teapot;
no, this must be a mistake.
The teapot becomes a shell,
and the music of the sea plays.
No one else seems to notice
the teapot, playing songs.
She’s calling me to her side;
I decide to visit the sea
and ask her for her hand.
Quiet dimly lit highways;
country roads overlook cows, sheep, powerlines.
Over the hills, an ocean of blue;
cold seawater foaming, spraying the shore.
Quitting the house, taking a midnight journey
through our memories;
we drive along those roads free as two birds.
No thoughts of lockdown, or a killer virus;
just wishfully thinking that we could live forever.
No one visits;
no visitors visit
her home.
More a witch than a woman,
or they say something
like that in hushed tones.
Living alone stirs rumours,
tales become more and
soon blood may flow.
A beauty despite the time.
She refuses to brush her hair,
many curls, a bird appears.
Black eyes know the
way to and from this
world to the next.
The chimney sends smoke
puffing thick into the
atmosphere.
Careful, she leaves
no trace of who
she once was.
Only what is needed,
she takes from her home,
the place loved so well.
Moving on, she sets her
home alight, so no one
will find what she felt.
Hearing her home burning;
the moor hides and
not a living soul is around.
Gone before the judgement
police come knocking,
and kill her with stones.
C & K 