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7.4k · Jan 2018
Saturday
Iris Proctor Jan 2018
Saturday
Sounds like the pattering
Of bare feet
On a dusty concrete yard,

Smells of chimney smoke
And jagged coal heath,
Sheep-scent and
Wiry wool on a barbed fence,

Saturday
Is a jangly guitar
In a rickety truck
On a gravel road,

With a gravel voice
Rough as grit,
Deep as the caverns
Between the peaks,

Saturday
Is sunlight on an enamel ***,
A tin kettle
And its blood metal tea,

It is blackberry-bitten legs
and iodine streams,
A canopy of heady bracken
Below penny-marked trees,

Then Sunday,
Slantwise
Against the setting sun
Away again.
7.2k · Jan 2018
Persephone
Iris Proctor Jan 2018
For half a revolution she spends her days
in caliginous caverns
where worms like silver thread
weave through moistened walls.
Water, endless dripping,
howling, whining, stalagmite fangs.

It began with a stranger,
shrouded with shadows.
Petrichor breath,
and beetle black eyes,
twisted root fingers,
and scattered seeds.

It was lonely at first,
death and loss and
weary wayfarers with tired souls.
An estranged husband,
a trio of rumbling growls,
and the lonesome echo of her own footsteps.

Waiting for a someday,
that will never come,
her titles, a mantra,
repeat in her head;
daughter, lover, mother and wife,
stealer of souls and giver of life.

So when the daffodils bud,
and the world awakens,
when she blinks through sunshine
and steps into the light,
she holds her head high.
She is Queen of the Underworld,
bolder than before,
she will evade their pity,
and transcend them all.
429 · Jan 2018
Artemis
Iris Proctor Jan 2018
The chaste heart bleeds
The blood of the hunt,
For a band of doe-eyed girls,

String our bows,
Allay our woes,
We follow you like spirits.

Who guides the tides?
Who saved our lives?
Who lights the feral forest?

Our moon goddess,
Diaphanous dress,
Howls sorrow for the stars.

A golden baby,
Sunshine spun,
Two archers intertwined,

“Your artful sister is heaven on earth.”
His arrow punctures breath,
She strikes the hart,
Pulls love apart
And mauls them all to death.
202 · Jan 2018
H.G.
Iris Proctor Jan 2018
In the city of love there walks a boy,
His fury as red as the flags
That hang above his head.
An alien, neither here nor there,
Existence denied.

The censored fears
Of a sister
Herded like cattle.
No more rationality,
The city of love has no love for him.

Monday morning metro
A postcard never delivered
Desperation and
Five peppering shots,
Blood as red as the flags
That hang above his head.

‘I am not a dog.’
The glass shatters.
A heinous smile
And the screams of the thousands
Echo through the November night,
His the loudest of them all.

— The End —