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Summer Jun 11
I discerned a face in the sand. It peered at me the way a child may peer at ants. I knew that face, had traced over the wrinkles marring the forehead, rubbed a finger on the mole below the eye, thought it was grime, realised it was not, and poked at the nose that was half an inch too long. It was a face of a woman, the eccentric lady who frequented my dreams, always walking with clicking heels, ivory robes dragging sludge, who dug pits with her purple fingernails. Are you look for this, I asked, handing over her face. She stood, corpse-like, and said, this lonely and bright thing, it beckons me, but this is not my face. This is yours.
Sycophants and Salisbury!
What does the basket in your heart hold?
Doris Dearess,
The where has gone
And sold away the wind.
Now my little hairs
Stand cold,
And I feel older than old.
Kool-Aid and calculated risk taking,

A brisk walk on the mild side

Has left you wanting more.

The line is breaking,

But be careful what you fish for.

There’s a knock on the door

And it’s for you,

Yeah, so it’s for you.

I remember stepping into the brine

As you tip tapped the tick tock

To keep it in line.

It was running out of rhyme and time

Was set to trickling

And tickling from inside.

Doris day and Doris night!

The stars about won’t start a fight

If you talk to them like that,

My dear.

Celestial bodies are not fans

Of blood,

And blood breeds bad seeds

That shoot at the moon

Like thieves.

The gull are shook,

Rattling frigid looks,

And the crooks are creeping

Up the hall.

Oh, Doris,

I can see them all,

And they call like crows

In a catered carrion free for all.

As the sun fades

Into its aquatic grave,

I save a test from the ******* past

And, Doris,

You have loaned stones to my

House of glass.

You’ve crashed,

And you’ve bashed,

And you’ve lashed yourself

To a mast

That you aren’t willing to steer.

In this instance,

I can still hear the bruising pier,

Cheering and jeering,

Until it believed its last.
This is part one in a ten part narrative poem. The whole thing tells the story of some unidentified incident, a nasty time in an unknown person's life. Doris may be many things. Doris may be nothing.
Ai Firefly Apr 10
(warm)th, (gold)en
skin, a canvas for parody
warm(th), gold(en)
temperate air of melody
twists the tidal antibody
towards bowing phrase of prosody
(war)mth, gol(den)
Ai Firefly Apr 10
quantum is the spread
of delicate prize along the lines

of your face we drift, ghostly

through each other
in cycles & bowed lips

cupid ties our words
into knots, what piles

of consonant frayed vowels
reside in the cracks, the floorboards
posture themselves within

the crick of our bones
& we are picked clean

for the bathing
of the moon
Ai Firefly Apr 10
I am rooted &
therefore I reach

the moon reflects

upon my feet, music is cubism
in twin with gritted teeth
a pavement keyed dark

& light pierced with golden
spindles of stacking

dust, inwardly green
with midnight, navy

a blanket of silence
worn to resonate
Thomas W Case Mar 13
The blue sky cuts
the woman to shreds
Sunflower saves her
from extinction.
Mountains want to crumble
with her into the lake,
but they can't,
they are strong, and
they have their place.
Time has got her,
she just doesn't know it
Jade Wright Feb 18
The first time you spoke, I got straight in the bath to
hide in its lucid duvet.
Your clarity was too much for me,
why could I never be so level-headed?

From then, I was in awe of you
so wise
so humble,
my little girl.

You loved coming to the woods
to collect pine cones with me.
I wanted to create a new oxygen system
of dreams and opportunities.
You liked to help me pick them up,
study the bumps with your gummy tongue.

Your mouth full of earth,
jewels I couldn’t see
you said: ‘I think you’re the most beautiful Mummy in the world.’

My face shined,
your tail danced.
I rewarded you with belly rubs.
Merlie T Feb 8
lights flash
Rippling the Sea and Puddle
Green, Red, Gold, Blue
Ribbons and Rainbows
Wrapped Round a Tree.
Lights Dim
Eyes Close
Voices Quiet
Muscles Relax
music so distant through the night
Max French Feb 8
Soft bedding shielding my body
From the axis of frigid air that thrives
Off the edge of everyone's bed.
But as always my mind is
Wrapped up in something else.

The cord attaching me to
The sail of blood and bone
Tugs deep at my ankles and legs
And moves me off, and out
Into the waking world.

And when did the world wake up,
Breathe heavy and rub yesterday's dirt
Off its dry and heavy eyes?
Lifting itself from a cold pillow
To pirouette the day away 'round the sun.

I question it only because
It feels, most days, like the planet
Is sleepwalking.
Shuffling and spewing nonsense,
Just like me.

At least I got to write this down
Before I go back to bed.
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