Poetry | Stories | Photography
The house no one notices is where the person they call the witch lives.
Quiet, yet uncomfortably loud. That is how the world outside describes ‘the lady’.
Uninterested in the limelight, the shadows of home become her friend.
Surrounded by Literature, she is herself.
Flawless by design. The very nature of watching herself in the mirror stirs human-like emotions.
Her creator said, “They will never know she is an android. Such is her design. And, this will be their downfall“.
She, an 18-year-old, knows nothing of her future violence.
Hands raised from the tiny pinnacle to a jeering crowd.
His lips flap, and his turkey neck does a little dance, as the crowd gathers momentum.
Talking nonstop about himself, he begins to sublimate until all that remains is hot gas.
The crowd, stunned into intelligence, retreats.
One Sunday afternoon
she left the washing and the cleaning alone,
for the day had changed.
Sipping sweet something
she hummed a tune and said, “Perhaps I will
do what he does for a day.”
When Sunday afternoon
became Sunday evening, her husband asked,
“Where is dinner, dear?”
She looked up and said, “I don’t know. I have
decided to do what you do today.”
Nostalgic thoughts help the intricate cocktails go down as they recall their time with Guru Malcolm at university.
What they once brushed off lightly seems so interesting to the grey-haired group.
Once called an evil genius with a taste for Jurisprudence and role-playing, no one was safe from the Plato theatre. They once debated Capital Punishment through a conversation between Aquinas, Rousseau, and Bentham.
They laugh and consider how different their lives would have been if they had listened to Guru J.
A calling to walk in the forest.
Hoping to find something that keeps calling back to the same wilted tree.
Taking more time now that the adults do not have the power to intervene.
Under moss and vines lay the inscription of her great-grandmother’s name – The Progenitor of Magic.
To live within parallel lives.
Working diligently to find a title for a discontinued road
and
thinking about writing poetry about spatulas and kettles.
The leaves rustled as the wind blew a gale through the realm.
A gathering of ladybugs hanging out in the law firms and the stock exchange, waiting for a predatory high.
Indifferent to the ladybugs, the bees like to socialise at the pub while waiting for the flowers to bloom.
Pots and pans go flying as Mum chases after Alfie again.
Bloody hell, they’re always getting into it, and now she’s red because he stole some apple pie.
I want to be alone to read, but she continues to chase him, yelling, “I’ll slash yer arse if I catch you!”
Sigh.
Lost in the gloaming
we chant silent Vespers
waiting for the falling
Leaves of next Autumn
C & K 