Stood rigidly to attention either side of the hearth, the two bronze fire-dogs had been struggling to maintain that British stiff upper lipidness, which up until earlier that evening had best befitted their station in life... indeed, for the last half hour at least had become brothers in arms to the dying embers filtering through the bars of the cast-iron grate, passing from the present here and now, having lost every thermal attribute necessary to sustain any further vestige of life... to the shortly forthcoming and being at oneness with the Universe... only to fall foul of the overflowing ash-pan below.  This premature cashing in of the coal fire's chips could only be attributed to the recent and prolonged thrashing from the Baronial poker... and a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the family retainer, whom it appeared, required spurring along in a like manner... and while unseen mechanisms were heard to be engaging, then resonating deep within the Hall... that unless summoned... and quickly, the housekeeper had little intention of making an appearance of her own choosing and re-stoke the Study fire while the BBC Home Service were airing 'Your 100 Best Tunes' on the wireless, leaving the heavily tarnished pendulum to continue measuring the hour.

     An indistinct mutter and snap of a closing door latch sounded in the immediate distance as the unhurried shuffle of domestic footsteps... not too dissimilar from those of Jacob Marley's spectral visitation to Scrooge... echoed ever closer along the ancient, oak panelled hallway without.  Their sudden cessation, allowing the housekeeper ingress to  the book lined Study, was by way of sporadic groans from unoiled hinges, door furniture that voiced the same overwhelming lack of attention as that of the fire-grate set in the wall opposite and presumably, from the same overwhelming lack of domestic servitude.
                                        
     "Had his Lordship rang...?" the Housekeeper wailed dolefully, giving her employer what might casually pass for a courteous bob... and in lieu no doubt, of Marley's rattling chains, padlocks and dusty ledgers... "and would there be anything further his Lordship required..." before she took her leave for the evening.  The notion of a sticky mint humbug warming the cockles of his ancient, aristocratic heart gave her pause for thought as she rummaged through her pinafore pockets, then thought better of it, after all, confectionary didn't grow on trees...  In bobbing a second time she noticed the malnourished, yet strangely twinkling coal-scuttle lounging over by the hearth, whose insubstantial contents had taken on an ethereal quality earlier that evening and had now transferred its undivided attention to the recently summoned Housekeeper, who was quite prepared to offer up a candle in supplication come next Evensong were she mistaken, but the coal-scuttle's twinkle bore every intimation of giving what appeared to be a very suggestive 'come-on' in return... and had been doing so since she first entered the room... 'and did she have any plans of her own that particular evening', the coal-scuttle twinkled suavely, 'perchance a leisurely stroll down by the old coal cellar steps...'  Now perhaps it was the lateness of the hour which had caused the Housekeeper's confusion that evening, or perhaps an over stretched imagination, brought on through domestic inactivity, but it wouldn't take a great deal to hazard that a lingering fondness for Gin and tonic played no small part towards her next curtsey, which she did, albeit unwittingly, in the unerring direction of the winking coal-scuttle.

     With the household keys as her badge-of-office, jangling defiantly from the chain around her waist, the housekeeper began inching back the same way she came, back towards the study door and freedom... and back into the welcoming arms of her 1/4 lb. bag of peppermint humbugs and the pint of best London Gin she'd had to relinquish prior to 'Songs of Praise...' and which was now to be found... should you happen to be an inquisitive fly on a particular piece of floral wallpaper... half-cut, locked arm in arm with the bottle of Indian tonic water and in the final, intoxicating throws of William Blake's, 'Jerusalem...' hic.

     "Ha-arrumph..." the elderly gentleman cleared his throat... "ah Gabby" he said, lowering his book and placing it face down upon the occasional table set beside him.  The flatulent groan of tired leather upholstery made itself heard above the steady monotony of the mantle-piece clock as he stood and chaffed his hands in the direction of the bereft fire, "Oh! I'm sorry your Lordship, then there was something...?" as she maintained her steady but relentless backwards retreat unabated, the double-barrelled bunch of keys taking up a strong rear-guard action and away from the well disposed coal scuttle... "and was his Lordship quite certain that he required the fire stoking at such a late hour..." she dared, "perhaps a nice warming glass of port and brandy instead" gesturing towards the salver, long since tarnished by the half hearted attentions of a proprietary metal polish... "and would he care for..." then thought better of offering to plump the chair cushions herself, having discovered Mort, the household mouser in the final stages of claiming them as his own, deftly rearranging the Victorian Plush with far more than any noble airs or graces.

     "Poor Mrs Alabaster, you will recall Sir, I'm sure..." a pained expression crossed the Housekeepers face as she collided with a corner of the Georgian writing bureau and bringing her to an abrupt halt... "her late Ladyships lady" she continued, indiscreetly rubbing her derriere, "whose services your Lordship dispensed with at the onset of last Winter, shortly after the funeral, God rest her late Ladyship... when you made her redundant... and how she's been unable to find a new situation ever since on account of her lumbago flaring up again, seeing as how it's been the coldest January in living memory", which in all likelihood meant since records began... "and SHE didn't have any coal either... or a roof over her head for all anyone cared... begging yer' pardon, yer' Lordship", letting her tongue slip as she attempted yet one more curtsey... "and it's wicked-cruel outside this time of year Sir, you wouldn't turn a dog out in it..." and how ordering the coal used to be Mrs Alabaster's responsibility...

     "Oh no, Sir", as she unsuccessfully stifled a hiccup...she would be only too delighted to rouse the Cook, especially after that dodgy piece of scrag-end they'd all had to suffer during Epiphany, but it was only last week that the Doctor had confined Cookie to bed with the croup... "as I'm sure your Lordship will recall..." as she attempted a double curtsey for effect, the despondent coal-scuttle now all but forgotten, "that below-stairs had been dining on pottage since a week Friday gone... and it tends to get a little moribund after almost a fortnight your Honour... and that Mrs Cotswold's rheumatism was still showing no signs of improvement either by the looks of things... and was having to visit the Chiropodist every fortnight for her bunions scraping... and how she's been advised to keep taking the embrocation as required".

     As a young woman, any disposition her grandmother may have had towards sobriety or moral virtue had quickly been prevailed upon by the former Master's son taking intimacy to the next level with the saucy Parlour Maid's good nature.   Shortly thereafter, having been obliged to marry the first available Gardener that came along, she was often heard to say "a bun in the oven's worth two in the bush" for it was with stories 'of such goings-on'  that made it abundantly clear to the Housekeeper, that it was far more than old age creeping up... and that if she didn't keep her wits wrapped tightly about her, as she threw a sideways glance at the winking philanderer... then who would.

     As for the Gardener, "well... he couldn't possibly manage the cellar steps at this late hour, yer' Lordship, wot' with the weather being the way it is right now Sir, seasonal... and him with his broken caliper... and bronchitis playing him up at every turn, even though his own ailing missus swore by a freshly grown rhubarb poultice first thing each morning", but oddly enough, "how it always seemed to work better if the young barmaid down in the village rubbed it on, especially around opening time..." even his brother, Mr Potts Senior, ever since their Dad passed away... "God rest his eternal soul", as she whirled, twice in as many seconds, a mystical finger in the air... had said how surprised he'd been to discover that it could be used as a ground mulch for seed-cucumbers... it was truly amazing how The Good Lord provided for the righteous... and even as she spoke, was working in mysterious ways, His Wonders to Behold... "Praised-Be-The-Lord".

     And how the entire household, with the possible exception of Mrs Alabaster, her late Ladyships lady, who doggedly refused to be evicted from her 'Grace n' Favour cottage...' the one with pretty red roses growing around the door, that despite a string of eviction notices from the apoplectic Estate manager... had noticed what a fine upstanding Gentleman his Lordship had steadfastly remained since her late Ladyships sudden demise... "God-rest-her-immortal-soul..." and may she allow herself to say, "how refreshing it was to have such a progressively minded and discerning employer such as his Lordship at the helm, one filled with patient understanding and commitment towards the entire household..." much like herself...

     Fearing an uncontrollable attack of the ague, which invariably took the form of a selfless and unstinting dereliction to duty and always flared up at the slightest suggestion of having to roll her sleeves up and do something... which incidentally, was the first mutual attraction by common consent to which her parents, some forty years earlier had discovered they both held in tandem... and "would his Lordship take exception..." feigning a sudden relapse as she gestured towards the nearest chair, were she to take the weight off her feet... she plonked herself solidly upon the Chippendale before his Lordship could decline... "perhaps a recuperative drop of brandy" she volunteered, "just for medicinal purposes", she swept her feet onto the footstool, then crossed them with a flourish that would have caused Cyrano de Bergerac to hang up his sword... "the good stuff, if his Lordship would be so kind, in the lead-crystal decanter... over in the corner by the potted plant", she caught sight of the adjacent cigarette box, also tarnished... "just to keep body and soul together, may it please 'Him upon High'..." and just long enough to brave the coal cellar steps and refill the amorous scuttle... "if only it were a little less chilly", she gave an affected cough... on account of her diphtheria acting up again, she felt sure that his Lordship understood...  Moving over to one of the book lined alcoves, the elderly Gentleman lifted several tomes from the shelves... 'My Life in Anthracite', an illustrated compendium' "to begin with, I think... followed by... hmm!" 'The History of Fossil-Fuels, a comprehensive study in twelve breath taking volumes' "and we'll take it from there" as he threw the first on the barely smouldering embers...

                                                      ­     ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                         1859

Poet do you recall when during days long done                      
Once when very young
You placed my scented kerchief beside
The small cross I always carried
On the wind we heard the clank of marching men
And the Tinkling of Bells
To my touch your armor was hot
Dust rose in great clouds and could be seen for miles
Unlike others your horse, fat from spring grass
Pranced and chaffed at the bit
So eager to leave, like you my Noble One
I rose to the promise of a kiss
But her lips were assaulted by your sweat and tears
You were violent
and that kiss
broke the strings and voice of my song
Now I no longer sing  
The Crusades are over the round table is empty   Women only sometimes dream of Gallant men                              
Weaving their fantasies through their poems and books
Funny thing though, the quest is very much alive and true
Recognized, known only to a few
And when meeting sometimes during that short passing
You can still hear Poet
The Tinkling of Bells
Enchantress speak to me and I will listen
Spin for me those golden words, so long departed, dark ages past
When truth was lost and light stopped burning
When reality was the sword and true love didn't matter
Birds were the only thing left singing and Camelot someones crazy dreaming
Stone tears, tolling of bells ringing in my ears
Left alone so many years and yet the vision
Is not lost nor the tears
What Cost?
Enchantress my heart was true what did I do?
Fingers falling on the frozen ground
His hair blood red, the face a frown, yet he's still allowed to see
He saw a door the light was shining as he sighed
As he moved alive into his dying
Deeds long spent flashed before his eyes of a lady in waiting
His lady of golden locks and of perfumed kerchief
His poet, spinner of words and song
Thoughts of two hearts beating yet as one
So far away he could not come
In a golden haze with divine grace the Goddess allows to see
To know at last a vision, no mercy, no innocent victim
A ribbon of moonlight covered the trees
He knelt by her alter
a knight on his knees
Pedals of roses crushed all around he remembers,  a promise broken
Of how he'd lost hope
A knowingness of what his life was and could have been
Again I remind you that truth had died, the Goddess she rested deep in slumber
Waiting the circle to complete
The knight knew then the Mothers name was nursed at her breast
And yet with no remorse betrayed her to follow the Quest
From his sword blood flowed in self righteous rage
And throughout all the land he cried, "the goddess is dead she died !"
Then as the vision fades with a jolt of pain so complete
He realises his true love, his  lady in waiting has died
Back on the frozen ground snow began to fall
He remembers how he'd hidden a locket deep in his pocket
Inside a trendle of golden hair plus an emrald so green
From the Isle of his dreams and the young maiden he'd left there

Still alive, alive with his dying to the goddess he screams
The locket still clenched tight in his hand
Now I know its heresy that men live only one life
One god one Christ guilt rides high a burden carried so long
Past all around, everyone can share, sin not someone else s duty to take away
Its our own responsibility, no innocence in the game we play
we write our own script
Earth a school house testing ground, We're actors in a play
Poet do you recall when during days long done
once when very young
Love is an open door listen to the whispering s of women
like we did before
The day the Goddess went to sleep all men died,
forgot how to embrace the Mother
Avalon lives I'll give you a clue there's nothing to do
,  you hold the key
It takes courage to be what you are. We've come so far, so many lifetimes
Traveling around passing each other on the wheel
Listen oh listen, can you hear the Tinkling of Bells

So my sweet Avalon
you who have the power to awaken in your dreams
Sing a new song you say
A tale not told, let the path create itself be bold
Now in this new day new age hearts are beginning to open
Twin Flames  together
Standing in their places of power
letting love in so it may flower
Following their own footsteps
not afraid of the fire
As a rule great power comes with dependence on each others fuel
Each receives a part of the other, that's
the golden rule
If you make Avalon your quest
I'll give you a clue
The magic of imagination is the surest tool
Use it wisely remember
that for every one who knocks the door will not open
Only Twin Flames hold the key
Love in it's purest form, the Token





www.thetinklingofbells.com

A lyrical poem about King Midas,how everything he touched turned to gold,and how he learned not to be greedy.


This is the tale of an ancient king
   Who loved all thing that pleasure brings
Who as a babe asleep in bed
     A trail of ants marched to his lips and fed
The young prince as he lay asleep
   With the choicest grains of wheat


Midas grew and gathered wealth
    With which he might enjoy himself
But aside from wealth, his fingers were green
    To he loved to prune and **** and clean -his garden,
every sort of rose
    He planted there and he watched them grow.


One day the old satyr- Silenus
   The teacher and friend of young Dionysus
Had straggled, drunken, from the crowd
    And staggering lost and singing aloud
he slept  off the wine in Midas’ Garden
    And  better pray that Midas gives him Pardon


Silenus woke and by guard was brought    Before Midas in the palace court
"What brings you here?" asked the King,
     I would like to know
‘Did you harm any of my roses.?’
     You didn’t !? Then Silenus. Take your pleasure
And dine and drink to double measure !

So Silenus,the lucky, old fun loving Satyr
    Grew steadily more drunk and fatter
All merrily the old soul chaffed
       King Midas who with him laughed
And when both had ate and drank their sate
    Silenus did this tale relate:

And he told a story to the king
    Of lands where he said he'd  been travelling
perhaps yarns spun from his dreams ?!
   of lands beyond the oceans stream
-peopled by folk of long life and health
    with very vast amounts of wealth !!  :)

Now Midas listened good and well
   To all Silenus had to tell
And when the story
   Came to end
He said: " please do point the way, my friend "
   For though Midas had more wealth than he would ever need
He was overcome by greed




So he sent ships and many men
   To sail the hyperborean
With eager, brave intent to find
   A land that perhaps  existed only in Silenus’ mind
And since no such place was found by Midas’ men
   They turned his ships
And sailed home again

Silenus loved to loaf around
   All day about the palace grounds
He grew indolent he was so lazy
    He  ate and drank all he could see
He thought” This is the life, great  stuff !
    But by now the king  had had enough !!


By this time  the lord Dionysus
   Was much concerned for his lost friend Silenus
Though not far  need he search or  roam
   For King Midas sent the old man home
And most pleased was the young god-boy
    For Silenus was his favourite friend and joy

So Dionysus conveyed  his gratitude to the king
    Does Lord Midas require anything ?
For the Lord Dionysus will grant
    Anything the king may want
And so the messenger was told
   May all that Midas touch be turned to gold




And all that Midas touched upon
Turned to gold and brightly shone
Midas’ table and his throne
   And all the contents of his home
And soon he had turned everyone
   To gold
Even his wife and sons

All this wealth it brought no good
   For Midas could not drink nor eat his food
Not a morsel could be ate
   But all turned to gold upon his plate
Golden fruits and golden meat
   Golden wine and golden wheat


And so the days they did pass by
    And a very hungered king did cry
That he did not want
    No he could not stand
His golden stores of treasure grand
    for he was hungry,thirsty, weak and dry
And not a morsel could that treasure buy

The poor king Midas he did sigh
   If he did not eat he soon would die
Alone he blubbered in despair
   He cursed himself and tore his hair
He could not stand it any more
   So he crawled half dead to Dionysus's  door

So thirsty, famished, very thin
   Midas begged Dionysus to release him
From the blessing that had become his curse
    For what fate could be any worse
Midas begged, he cried implored
   That life be restored
As it were before


The god he drank
   Deeply carousing
He found the matter quire amusing
    But although he laughed at Midas suffering
He had some compassion for the king
    He said “ I hope you have learned your lesson well
The king  listened to what he had to tell

At the source of the river Pactolus
   Near the mount of Tmolus
There you may drink and wash yourself
    And be restored to natural health
And all your golden treasures stored
    Shall all become as they were before

So Midas journeyed west to seek
   The water spring near the mountains peak
His thirst was as a burning flame
   But travelling onward soon he came
Upon the mountain
   When he saw it’s water
He broke down and cried with tears and laughter

They say that Midas was so relieved
    That never again did he ever greed
He learned that his greatest treasure was his life
   His good health, his sons and wife

The sands of the river Pactolus some say -  Are golden to this very day

a lyrical poem about King Midas, and how everything he touched turned to Gold and how he learned not to be greedy.

This is the tale of an ancient king
Who loved all thing that pleasure brings
Who as a babe at sleep in bed
A trail of ants marched to his lips and fed
The young prince as he lay asleep
With the choicest grains of wheat


Midas grew and gathered wealth
With which he might enjoy himself
But more than wealth, his fingers were green
To he loved to prune and **** and clean
His garden, every sort of rose
He planted there and watched them grow


One day the old satyr Silenus
The teacher and friend of young Dionysus
Had straggled, drunken, from the crowd
And staggering lost and singing aloud
Then he sleepy off the wine in Midas’ Garden
(he better pray that Midas gives him Pardon)


Silenus woke and by guard was brought
Before Midas in the palace court
What brings you here, I would like to know
‘Did you harm any of my roses.?’
You didn’t !?
Silenus. Take your pleasure
And dine and drink to double measure


So Silenus,the old fun loving Satyr
Grew steadily more drunk and fatter
All merrily the old soul chaffed
King Midas who with him laughed
And when both had ate and drank their sate
Silenus did this tale relate

And he told a story to the king
Of lands where he’d been wandering
(perhaps yarns spun from his dreams)
of lands beyond the oceans stream
peopled by folk of long life and health
with very vast amounts of wealth

Now Midas listened good and well
To all silenus had to tell
And wehen the story
Came to end
He said please do point the way my friend
For though Midas had more wealth than he would ever
Need
He was overcome by greed


So he sent ships and many men
To sail the hyperborean
With eager brave intent to find
A land that existed only in Silenus’ mind
And since no such place was found by Midas’ men
They turned the fleet
And sailed home again



Silenus loved to loaf around
All day about the palace grounds
He grew indolent and quite lazy
And ate and drank all he could see
He thought” This is the life,
Good stuff !
But by now the king had had enough


By now the lord Dionysus
Was much concerned for his lost friend Silenus
Thjough not far need he search or roam
For Midas sent the old man home
And most pleased was the young god-boy
For Silenus was his favourite friend and joy



SoDionysus sent his gratitude to the king
Does Lord Midas require anything
For the Lord Dionysus will grant
Anything the king may want
And so the messenger was told
May all that Midas touch be turned to gold


And all that Midas touched upon
Turned to gold and brightly shone
Midas’table and his throne
And all the contents of his home
And soon he had turned everyone
To gold
Even his wife and sons


All this wealth it brought no good
For Midas could not drink nor eat his food
Not a morsel could be ate
But all turned to gold upon his plate
Golden fruits and golden meat
Golden wine and golden wheat


And so the days they did pass by
And a very hungered king did cry
That he did not want
No he could not stand
His golden stores of treasure grand
for he was hungry,thirsty, weak and dry
And not a morsel could that treasure buy


The poor king Midas he did sigh
If he did not eat he soon would die
Alone he blubberd in despair
He cursed himself and tore his hair
He could not stand it any more
So he crawled half dead to Dionysus door


So thirsty, famished, very thin
Midas begged Dionysus to release him
From the blessing that had become his curse
For what fate could be any worse
Midas begged, he cried implored
That life be restored
As it were before


The god he drank
Deeply perusing
He found the matter quire amusing
But although he laughed at Midas suffering
He had some compassion for the king
He said “ I hope you have learned your lesson well
Midas listened to what he had to tell


At the source of the river Pactolus
Near the mount of Tmolus
Ther you may drink and wash yourself
And be restored to natural health
And all your golden treasures stored
Shall all become as they were before


So Midas journeyed west to seek
The water spring near the mountains peak
His thirst was as a burning flame
But travelling onward soon he came
Upon the mountain
When he saw it’s water
He broke down and cried with tears and laughter


They asy that Midas was so relieved
That never again did he ever greed
He learned that his greatest treasure was his life
His health, his sons and wife

The sands of the river’Pactolus” some say
Are golden to this very day

The rain beat the pavement as the man ran to a nearby bus shelter holding a newspaper over his ragged hair. The rain hitting the glass was nearly deafening, but there was comfort in the sound. A public transit bus comes and goes, recognizing the bleak figure immediately. This was, after all, his commonplace - the closest thing he had to a home in the past two years.
"Get a job", people would say, as if it were ever really that easy.
He had been diagnosed with depression after his wife’s passing nearly four years ago and suffered alone as he mourned and pushed through what most people see as a normal life. On the outside, it was unapparent how miserable he had become, unable to share the world with another as he had now for so many years. He came to his cubical on time each day, he worked until the late afternoon had came and went, and he left without a word. He was the unnoticed face in a crowd.
All at once, he lost his drive to live his life. He stopped showing up to work, he did not pay his bills, he didn’t answer the door or the phone. The clear print reading “EVICTION NOTICE” had meant nothing to him. He took only the essential things with him as he left behind an empty house behind. The last thing he put into his bag was a copy of the Odyssey, worn now after so many years of attentive reading.
The tattered copy sat open on his crossed legs, the moment passing by. The walls of the shelter sheild him from the wind and welcome him into their embrace. the adequecy of lighting was questionable as the sun descends and the world loses its colour. A streetlamp flickers to life and casts an ominous glow onto the street beneath it. He continues to read about the long journey of a man trying to find his way home, not unlike himself. What’s happening on the page is disconnected from thepart of the world that he is trapped on; he watches his secret world become a vivid painting beneath his hands and turns the page.
"Hello," said a man waiting for another bus to take him to a far off place.
He didn’t respond.
"I take it you like the book, judging by the condition…" The man tried again to grasp his attention. His dark figure loomed on the other side of the glass.
"I do", he said.
"What’s your name, son?"
He paused, turning to fully look at the man. “Its Tristan,” he said, contemplating the man as he stepped into the light. The man shuffled into the shelther gingerly, leaving behind the loud clack of his cane. His clothes chaffed against the skin on his legs, and he carried his fedora in his hand. He creased his face in pain as he sat beside Tristen.
"My name is Connor Wright", he breathed heavily, struggling to continue. "I have a spare copy of that book myself, laying around at home. No use to myself. Would you want to have it? I can bring it to you the same time next week"
"How do you know I will return it?"
"Perhaps I don’t want it back"
The silence stretched. “I would like that very much, sir” replied Tristan.
A dark blue bus pulled up to the stop without warning and stirred the stillness in the air. The headlights shone in their eyes and caught the edge of the mans thick-framed glasses. “I will see you next week then”
Each week came and passed as Mr. Wright began to bring Tristan books frequently, exchanging each new book for the last. “Why do you treat me with such kindness when I have nothing to give?” Tristan would ask him each week, never recieving an answer.
A year passed by in the presence of the silent agreement. Mr. Wright would often bring Tristan a warm container filled with soup, or a sandwhich left over from lunch to accompany his reading for the night.
On a cold night in april, Tristan waited at the bus stop for the greying man. He spotted him across the street as he waved to him. Tristan, flashing his increasingly more common smile, returned his vivid wave in the direction of Mr. Wright.
"Hello Tristan", he began as always with a bright smile. His distinct aroma filled the hollow bus shelter - a mix of burnt wood, but also new paper and musk, and apparent paradox. After a brief conversation, Tristan took the book out of Mr. Wright’s frail hands.
The bus arrived shortly thereafter and Mr. Wright borded the exhausted vehical, taking his time going up the short stoop of stairs.
This book was rather unlike the other books that Mr. Wright had given him in the past months. His books had usually been full of journeys abundant with creatures, or filled to the brim with a quaint scenery, embodying an allegory in a far off place. The book he held in his hands was called “Darkness Visible”. It was a self-help book for those in the winter of their lives, much as Tristan was, though he hated to admit it.
He opened the page of the book and the spine cracked as the smell of fresh ink and paper filled his senses. This book was new.
He read with curiousity at first, which later turned to deep interest, and later still, turned into inspiration. The following week, Tristan returned this book to Mr. Wright as he told him that he would not be returning to the bus stop with any more new books. “I wish to see you again in the future”, he said, handing Tristan a slip of paper with his name and phone number on it.
Many years passed by and the two men kept regular contact, discussing the endevours of Tristan and his success in his new life.
"Doctor Spense, you have a visitor" his secretary informed him in her usual airy tone.
"Send them in, please"
A man with strong lines creased into his face turned the door handle and entered his office at Kingston University. Commonalities were exchanged and the man fought back a solemn look as he took a seat across from Tristan. The armchair engulphed him.
"Doctor Spense, I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Connor Wright passed away this morning as he succumed to his long fight against cancer", he spoke as though he had said these words in practise. "I am here because you were included in his will and we need to speak about legalities".
Mr. Wright had left him his entire collection of books, including that first copy of the Odyssey that Tristan had cherised so many years earlier when he had had nothing else. As he opened the familliar book, an envelope fell to the ground.
He stooped to the ground to pick up the white sheet and put it in the pile of other loose pages when he saw in handwriting, “To Dr. Tristan Spense”.
He read the words and tears filled his eyes, prickling at the corners and pooling in the clear canvas of skin before his jaw.

"The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty…" - Mother Teresa
I treated you kindly holding the knowledge that you would have nothing to give in return because I saw something I once saw within myself during the darker days of my time. I helped you because I knew your soul would rot and perish in a sickly way should you go unnoticed. I helped you because I hate faith in you and knew you had the kind of illness that could be taken away with the love of a friend. I hope that I have been able to give you the medicide loneliness, desparity and hopelessness and that your cabinets are stocked full. Remember where you have come from, and remember that it is always darkest before dawn.
Your friend always,
Connor Wright

The moment I spoke
your name
for the last time,
you felt it.

You had to throw
the net again into the sea,
to trap me
in my pathetic
admiration of you.

You felt it when
I forgot you existed.
You had to weasel your way
back in to
my heart.

But the space reserved for you
has grown
so small.

How many years
do you plan
on pulling me along?

Dragging me behind your
reckless automobile, my face raw
from rubbing the asphalt. Skin chaffed from
repeated abuse. You are
the madman behind
the wheel.

I forgot about you
until you reminded me that
I'm simply not me
unless I feel
discarded, abandoned,
unloved by you.

Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,
Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.
Stout the bucket and tough the cord,
Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.
'Never look down!
Stick to the line!'
That was the saying at Pennarby mine.

A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.
Lord, to see how the miners laughed!
White in the collar and stiff in the hat,
With his patent boots and his silk cravat,
Picking his way,
Dainty and fine,
Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.

Touring from London, so he said.
Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?
Where did they find it? How did it come?
If he tried with a shovel might he get some?
Stooping so much
Was bad for the spine;
And wasn't it warmish in Pennarby mine?

'Twas like two worlds that met that day--
The world of work and the world of play;
And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft
Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed.
'Got 'em all out!'
'A cousin of mine!'
So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.

And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,
Told him the facts about the pit:
How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smell
Warned them off from tapping -- well,
He wouldn't say what,
But they took it as sign
To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.

Then leaning over and peering in,
He was pointing out what he said was tin
In the ten-foot lode -- a crash! a jar!
A grasping hand and a splintered bar.
Gone in his strength,
With the lips that laughed--
Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft!

Far down on a narrow ledge,
They saw him cling to the crumbling edge.
'Wait for the bucket! Hi, man! Stay!
That rope ain't safe! It's worn away!
He's taking his chance,
Slack out the line!
Sweet Lord be with him! 'cried Pennarby mine.

'He's got him! He has him! Pull with a will!
Thank God! He's over and breathing still.
And he -- Lord's sakes now! What's that? Well!
Blowed if it ain't our London swell.
Your heart is right
If your coat is fine:
Give us your hand! 'cried Pennarby mine.

1
Faerie, fey, in a windless stride
Along the verdant wood and wild
Beasts, so are, here do abide
Yet this urban life, maxims beguile.
So true, the only beast is man
Though he’s born of claw, the tooth
By birth it’s of the haft
Dagger, gun, and perfidious craft.
Apart, I see only one
Together, sparks to bring, undone
Me, for this, I dare not stand.
Such impropriety, a fellow’s creed
Rich are all in my mother tongue
Speak volumes for their egotism,
And seemingly endless greed,
Divest from it, with righteousness,
With acts they before shun.
Bah! To clean air and streams to follow
Network of the aimless vein
Blood for the vindicated!
Whilst they proceed to their empty smog
And free wills ever truncated
Marching headlong and abreast
To Hell they step in tow.
Never mind those evils done
My cure is in anathema, unchained
The inner man, the wild!
Autonomy, dumb, and pure!
I am the center of starry pull
I’m the individual, in me all is whole
I am the blot, the rebel, and the Wife of Lot!
A mark upon the cosmichead
My material exists, destined to rot
But, this death, it shall be free
Unlatched from this society.
No more shall these orchestras
Be condemned to prune as sighs
Now to high monastic chants
To venerate this life of mine.
Every corner of this brick and mortar
Keep us penned, like cattle adorned
In slacks and ties, agendas several miles high
This Fetish-Messiah, Banality
Makes sweet the cuds of humanity
None of this impurity can exist beneath
The canopy, foundation’s wrought of Ego’s dust
Pretense, a star, of foundry of the Heaven’s cusp.
#2
**** this, i have returned
the scwl of the citi
So litle and worthless
Huge slabs of grey metal
--failed of my conviction
i’m knowing in the sense
of Tao (dao), mute and confused
Tying to remove it
farce and utopia!
This cow is really low
Munching on—now, I know
As the faeries said
“At cross, betuta, moss”
What mean, all nonsense. All!
#3
The city was always upon my soft palms
That chaffed when I struck for a flame
The vanity hung in loose little threads
When my sleeves fell tattered, the same
It was through my teeth, my fellows did breathe
Strangers upon the tongue
I saw in the water the face of them
And heard them in my curses  
A stranger voice said “we” and “them”
Had genesis’d these verses.
It was those about me who birthed the world
As I had done for them
Momentum! Be quick! For fellow man!
As I am
As you are
The other’s cosmic order
I’ve built the structure I can deny
But with undeniable mortar.

A cracked bathroom mirror,
White powdered blood shot eyes.
The reflection seems more clear.
Or so said the knives.

This one is for seduction.
Shaft chaffed by your pulled aside thong.
Your eyes plead for destruction.
Open your throat, spread out, tell me I'm wrong.

Little kitten take my hand.
Follow me to la la land.
Hold my shoulder, touch my lips.
Wipe tears from the bruises on your hips.

Pop the cork and pour some wine.
Pull the blinds, I'll cut the line.
Slow crawling as part of your ruse.
Bite my ear while I fill your tattoos.
We can be the birds and the bees.
Hang children from the trees.
Pass the whiskey, I've got the gun.
A sting of cold metal on your tongue.
Tuck away the last portion.
Hide it somewhere no on goes.
A clothes hanger abortion.
So no one ever knows.

A cold, dark desert begins
When a faint peach light saunters over the horizon
& climbs the sky,
Leaving darkness to shadows and graves.

The chaffed branches of bushels,
Barely lingering along the threshold of life,
Find solace in crawling growth
As the glow reaches dusty twigs,
Making them as networks of smoker bronchi.

Faded green cacti hold posture sharp,
As totems of harsh-landed culture,
Serving as solemn landmarks
In a flatland of mixed dust and rock,
They stand tall
All for a breath of young desert air.

While quiet hue spreads,
Passing each towering rock & mountain,
Even quivering lizards,
Waiting to be sunbaked,
Change to pink-yellow glow
& scarcely move
As the sun soars above
sizzling rigid scales,
Until the glowing horizon becomes a burning, lit land
Under a radiating Arizona sun.

Recycled thoughts that were
thought before, I have to think
a new but the same memory
comes back where is my
imagination, where is my free
thought.
  
Like a nightmare I cant think
things anew, just that same thing,
that same thought recycled in my
mind once more.
  
I need to feel things, to think of
things that havent happened.
Not to use these old thoughts, ideas
chaffed at the edges as used to much.
Cobwebs in my mind I need to wake
my mind, to make to see things anew.

When they read their “Proclamation”
There was silence, scattered laughter.
It was as if the town folk knew
those boys were soon for the hereafter.

For Seven Hundred years
The Irish nation wore her chains
and, although they chaffed at times,
her second nature they became.

Not comfortable exactly, but
the folk knew nothing better.
Unlikely to be changed, they thought,
rebellions cannot change the Weather.

Imperial might fell hard that week
on both the bold and the indifferent:
The City center left in flames,
Prisoners marched off to internment.

Then the executions followed,
one by one the brothers fell.
With every dawn their ranks grew thin,
but our opinions changed as well.

In the hearts of the indifferent
Love of country grew more dear:
Pride and a sense of Nationhood
and a new changed Atmosphere.

Spent.
Rusted.
Encrusted.
Barnacled.
Manacled.
Chaffed.
Reddened.­
Arrested.
Transfixed.
Calmed.
Balmed.
Blamed.
Inflamed.
Infiltra­ted.
Intrigued.
Embarked.
Engaged.
Encompassed.
Decompressed.
Col­d-compressed.
Chilled.
Thrilled.
Spilled.
Spent.

If I’ve ever known truth it just chaffed at the neck
I’ve been suffering all the symptoms of a lack of respect
So I must reflect then deflect all the gloomy flecks I see
Then reflect again on the lifestyle,
Of the wild life inside the childish side of me
All in effort to be free
Not free falling
Not roaming from a new ideal, to new ideal like a new calling
I 'd rather have a grand New Deal like Mr. Roosevelt's
And swim easily in this sea of changes like Michael Phelps

The brilliant idea you've been
waiting for expired
a moment after someone else thought
it. Implementing emptiness
has become your forte and scavenging for
adrenaline
within the souls of second hand tennis shoes
is representative of stability in your crooked,
unbalanced way, when
you glean nothing but
past tense grammar
on any given day of your actual life.

There's no grand story here. Go somewhere else.

And you can't even paint a sympathetic
portrait
of your dry and chaffed lips, of purple ink
stains beneath eyes, of words unattainable
stuck around your gums,
because the guy over there painting an unequivocal
masterpiece is homeless and
utilizing dirt to make a rainbow with
seven more colors than
your store bought acrylics ever could.

Pity is
stupid
when you've got everything
but that

he says i’m beautiful, in the morning,
when my hair is a cluster **** of tangles and knots,
when my skin is indented, chaffed from his bristles,
when my legs are beginning to grow the hair that for some
reason is not supposed to ever be there,
he says i’m beautiful, in the morning,
when i groan and shy away from the prospect
of the day
he says i’m beautiful,
he says i’m beautiful every morning,
until, he says, i can wake up every morning
and believe it, too.

“tell me i’m beautiful”

Perhaps an introduction is in order.

We are fields of graves, bone-dust lying soft beneath the earth, footnotes in the annals of history. We are housewives, warriors, mothers, witches, healers, poets, inventors, philosophers, seekers, servants, royalty. We are young and old and middle-aged. We are the line of relentless faces in front of The White House lawn, the chaffed, frozen fingers gripping banners of purple and gold. We are wombs that hemorrhaged from the unforgiving wire of coat hangers. We are the tender and unbreakable who raised generations under the weight of our ***.  

We are legend. We are life-source. We are women.

In any case, we have something to tell you, our daughters, who are so defeated you can barely find a reason to go on. Listen.

You come from the guts of the Universe and are equipped with more power than our society knows what to do with. From cradle to coffin, you face a world which tries to snap you in two at every chance. You are branded with labels as soon as you’re old enough to attract attention. You are *****, ****, *****, ****; weak, silly, inferior, dim, useless. You are good for your body and if your body is not good enough—if your hips are too wide for **** and your ******* too small for beautiful and your hair to rough to be desirable—you aren’t worth anything.

Each time you turn on the television or computer or step outside your home, you are assaulted by what you should be, told to go to war with your sense of self. You’re something always in need of fixing and this only intensifies with time. You are naturally unclean, too wild for your own good. Men won’t touch you unless you are smooth, supple, and hairless—practically childlike. They shudder at any mention of the monthly blood flow between your legs and the way your abdomen clenches and aches, proof that you can create life.

Your most base rights and liberties are still (God, still) the source of violent political warfare, because Human does not apply to Female. You are ***** in billions of ways, stripped and stripped of your dignity, your power, and those sweet stars in your eyes. You stand in the center of a great mob, and their spears are all pointing at you.

We burn for you, are enraged to the point of combustion. We’ll never forget what it was like to be in your place. The memory of such oppression will always be imprinted within us, reverberating long after death. Our softest, deepest apologies are with you, as is our softest, deepest admiration. We hope you can feel it.

We hope you’ll put down your despair for a moment, listen to your heart drumming away, and remind yourself that your subordinance is man-made. You are crafted of the same atoms as Eve and Joan of Arc and Cleopatra, your strength is infinite. You are pure helium, rising, reviving and resurrecting, again and again, on and on.

Lift your chin, raise your eyes, and breathe from the root of your being. Don’t be frightened; we are with you. The fight goes on.

Let no mouth your brain believe.
Sift from wheat
Every chaffed words with sound

Judgment. Praise you will receive
Surely of men,
But balance your head aground.

For blarney do quickly persuade,
Swaying
Swiftly a lady's heart off course,

By calling teffeta the best brocade,
Placing for ruin
A fool upon a regal, gammy horse.

Welcome to the feast,
sit at my table and do not regret
anything that will not be eaten today,
for this is our sacrificial slaughter
that must call out favor
to the Gods' fervor.

We dine without thought of
slave or beast. We, lords
of the second coming,
pass judgement upon those
who tread so softly at our heels
that a whisper of thanks escapes
from their chaffed lips and yet it cannot
be heard even in our pious silence.
They dance for us in cages that
arrogantly stretch from floor-to-ceiling
for their owners,
wrapped in ribbons of ruby and gold
and tops of blackened steel.
The bars hold the imprisoned steady
as they stand tall, true, and unapologetic
to their purpose.

They call for us,
and we, you and I,
as Gods,
must answer them.

The chaffed red thighs of the streetwalker
And darting yellowed eyes of the nervous talker
Do not meet in this celibate exchange
This strange therapy in a musty room
No thrusting hips or sweaty faces loom
Niether dips down or drips above the other
With weight of body or intent that smothers
No sound of slapping skin
She punches in the clock
Sits, looks, listens
He licks his chewed lips
And in the light they glisten

It's 1:00 am on Friday night after we've hung out for the second time this week
Not for the first time, I open my phone to a 150 word text explaining that my words chaffed you the wrong way and you were not pleased with me
The problem is that this time I was not feeling love for myself
Today I felt ****** and then you made me feel like a ****** person
Two different things
I feel ****** because lately my life has been on pause and I've merely been existing instead of living
I feel ****** because I no longer find the joy in simple things
I feel ****** because I'm both alone and lonely and I feel shut out by the world
It's 1:05 am on Friday night after we've hung out for the second time this week
and I've just finished reading your text for the fifth time while contemplating a response and that's when I started to feel something
I feel like a ****** person because I forgot that you have the tendency to overthink and overanalyze every word ever said to you while I have the tendency to underthink and under-analyze my thoughts
I feel like a ****** person because, at my lowest point, I opened 150-word text highlighting all the flaws in my personality
I'm happy and sad about your way of expressing yourself
Happy because of the level of comfort in our relationship that you feel the need to give me a performance review.
Sad because as I read this and know you expect change
Sad because I sit here knowing I failed you
Sad because I feel ****** 200 days out of the year and on those days, the extra effort just eludes me
Sad because I don't know if our friendship can survive on such a forced diet
And when it withers, I'll know it was me and I'm sorry for the inevitable.

Stopper of hearts,
   but what have you done
   to all the lads of Ashland?

    Your struggling cheek
   a soft delight
   chaffed against a world of sadness-



The candy shop, no sweeter,
despite it's lollipops and chocolates
than the ******* alive and prideful
at the fluttering of her naked lashes. 

Civil when you meet her,
she knows where the aorta's at-
Squeezing like a vice grip
at the ruddy heart attack

i always thought poetry
happened as life
chaffed you over
and over
until it rubbed holes in
the fiber of you
and almost without even knowing it
you leaked your soul in lines.
i thought experience was beautiful
but its only disenchanting.

i think a cynic is such an ugly thing
and i think myself the ugliest of all.
i'm always wanting
always falling into a trope of misery;
i thought i was better than that,
i thought i was wise.
i can't hide my sensitivity or shiny pinpricks of hurt
catching the light.
i thought poetry dripped like faucet water
like a garden hose.
i suppose i've learned that poetry
is like pulling your worst fears
from your stomach where they thrive in acid dark,
and pushing them out through your mouth.

it's word-poisoning.
it's the ugliest parts,
it's vestigial tenderness
and i'm bruised
yellow black blue
purple red.
i've been living in the
tortured safety of my own head
and poetry is my writing on the wall
scratched into the sides of my skull.
it doesn't matter what i say
because i'll probably
live there till i die
but at least i'll have this graffiti,
this watery poetry sloshing like
brine in a jar.
what an ugly cynic i've become.

In the liquid of these eyes
Dreams don't drown
In the turbulence of the wind
Or the raging storms
Stars don't shake or fall

The scars on that beneath your breast
Have chiseled you to the amazing piece that you now are
Believe me, my darling
Time has a story to tell you
Listen with patience

Look closely
You're still alive
You still exist
There's still life in your every breath

Look closely into the ashes
There's still a flicker of an ember
Blow it and light it up
Even if you've lost so many times
You haven't forgotten how to fight

Look closely honey
Even on headstrong roads
Your chaffed feet still remember how to walk
Even with ironclad rules and norms
Your heart is still a rebel

Be You! Be You!!
You can do it!
You are enough
You are amazing
You will succeed
So, Shine that light

©_HerOutspokenMind||LookClosely

He stood at the back, and looked around
The church, not even full,
There wasn’t a face he recognised
From his far off days at school,
He thought of Jim in the coffin there
Who had reached his end of days,
Then hid his head and the tears he shed
As they sang a hymn of praise.

The congregation had filed on out
To attend a hurried wake,
‘I hope she finished the Lamingtons,’
Said the grandson, Edward Drake.
‘We’re lucky to have a wake at all
For they’ve been divorced for years,
I couldn’t believe she’d put it on
But she even cried real tears!’

He didn’t follow the mourners down
But turned away on his own,
He hadn’t anything much to say
To the strangers Jim had known,
He’d said goodbye to his only friend
To the last one that he had,
The rest had gone on ahead of him
And the thought of that was sad.

What do you do in an empty world
When the last of those you knew
Is lying under a grassy knoll,
Covered in morning dew?
When your wife has gone to an early grave
And your son has gone, too soon,
While a daughter’s taken in childbirth
Early one Sunday afternoon.

He walked and walked til the sun went down,
To the sound of an inner voice,
‘Why have you stayed around so long?’
‘My fate gave me little choice!’
His mind filled up with the sounds of them
Who had laughed and joked in the past,
They said, ‘We knew it would come to this,
But someone had to be last!’

He wandered out in his garden then,
So dark that he couldn’t see,
But every one of his friends was there
Hiding behind each tree,
They called and chaffed in the darkness that
Their time had been way back when,
‘We’re quite content with the lives we led,
Why don’t you join us, Ben?’

But Ben sits still in his empty house
While a candle gutters there,
He thinks he’ll go when the flame goes out
Sat in his easy chair,
He doesn’t think of the future now
For his life was lived in the past,
And his mind is filled with memories
Til the Lord takes him, at last.

David Lewis Paget

let’s **** to ‘blonde'
over and over again

one hour three minutes
twenty five seconds
until lips are chapped
until legs are chaffed
until love and lust
collide

an eighteen
wheeler jackknifes
across the barricade
small bits of me die
and we **** again​

Penelope was angry with me,
earlier this week I had ripped up
a story that I’d been working on for
a long time.

The story was about an ex-con, with a heart of gold,
he wandered around Nevada and righted a few wrongs
along the way.  

The coolest thing about him was his name and the fact that
he was a little banged up.

In my head, he was kind of an older guy, a ***,
kind of greasy, you know, shifty, reckless, a guy
maybe you could relate to, and he walked with a cane.

Big deal, right?

Penelope didn’t think so; I mean she was smart enough
to know that this story wasn’t my ******* magnum-opus
or anything, but she got ****** because I flipped out, started yelling
about how I was a no good sonofabitch, couldn’t write for ****,
and should give it up and take up ******’ basket-weaving or something.

She tried to tell me that I was being a ******* and that I was a good writer;
pointing out that I’d made it into rags like “Clues”, “Dime Detective”, and that once
I’d even been published in “Web of Mystery”.

But I wouldn’t listen and I told her that she was full of ****, and a pain in the ***,
and that she could do better than a hack like me, and I told her to get the hell
away from me or I might lose my ******* mind and strangle her.

So, she did.  She packed a bag, got in my car, and took off for her cousin’s house upstate.

Now, here I was, without my car, without more than maybe twenty-five bucks to my name,
and without the girl of my dreams.

I was just about to throw my typewriter out the window when the phone rang…

“Penny?”
“Nope.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, ya dumb ****!”
“Who the **** is ‘me’ and what the **** does ‘me’ want?”
“It’s Dale, ya *******!”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!”

Dale proceeded to tell me about how he’d just been picked
up by both “Amazing Stories” and “Tales From The Crypt” for a
six month run of short fiction in each and he then tells me that
they’ve seen fit to advance him two-hundred dollars each.

“Eat ****, Dale,” I say, and hang up the phone.

About thirty minutes later there’s a knock at my door.
It’s not Penelope, unfortunately.
It’s Dale.

“I don’t wanna eat ****, Chuckie-boy.
I wanna eat a steak.”

I tell Dale to go get a **** steak and that I’m not planning on going anywhere.
He won’t take no for an answer, so the next thing I know, we’re loaded into his jalopy and heading downtown.

The first place we go is Rico’s.  

Rico’s has pretty good food and they know what to do with a KC strip,
so Dale’s pretty jazzed.

“Chuck, you getting’ a steak?”
“Nah, I was thinkin’ about the club sandwich.”

While we ate, Dale told me about how he’d gone about the writing of the pilots
for his two series of short stories, about the correspondence between himself and the
editors, about sending in edits and revisions, and about finally getting his acceptance letters,
signing the contracts, and getting the checks in the mail.

I listened, sure, but mostly I let my thoughts wander to how Penelope and I had done, and been doing, much the same for the past several years.  
I would mail manila envelopes back and forth to “Mystery and Suspense” and she would do her monthly allotment of sentiment scribbling for The Renaissance Greeting Card Co.

Neither of us were hacks.  We got some checks in the mail, same as Dale, and more often.

What chaffed was that Dale had gotten a contract for a run of stories.

Dale had gotten what I wanted. And, I couldn’t handle it.
I had forgotten about all that I had done, all that I had achieved,
I had dismissed all of those manila envelopes, all of those little checks, I had forgotten how they’d added up, how they’d kept me alive, fed me, sheltered me, how they’d sustained me.

And in the dismissal of those envelopes and all the good they’d done me, I’d managed to dismiss the only other things that had done me any good at all.  I’d dismissed myself as a writer, and I’d done the very same to Penelope.  

What a fool I was.

When we’d finished, Dale paid the check and asked if I wanted to go to Auggie’s *******
and have a look.

I said that I didn’t.

I thanked him for the meal and asked if he’d mind dropping me off at home.

I told him that I had a lot of work to do on a rewrite,

and that I had a telephone call to make.

*

-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2016

The day you slept I cried
I wonder why

My heart sat in my throat trying to choke me so I could sleep along with you
And yet while you lived I would have kept my distance
Kept far from your disdaining reach
Now I would have given anything to wrap my arms around your warm waist
To touch your smooth camel skin, trace my fingers on your cinnamon freckles
Or just stare into your hot brown eyes
And yet while you lived I would have kept mine lowered
Kept my gaze averted from your frightening glare

While you existed I cried
I think I know why

My brains boggled in my head wildly so I could be unhinged like you
It seemed uncanny how the powerful, fierce woman I once feared
Had now become just a frail, helpless shadow of herself
Still spewing malignant insults at me from her chaffed mouth
Cursing fervently with force that would bend me again to her will
In your weakness your words still crushed me
Orders barked from your sick bed jolted me
As if the strength would return and position you to punish me if I didn’t obey

When you lived I cried
I know why

My body stayed in a constant state of swelling, bruising and wounding
So I could be scarred like you
It didn’t matter that I was innocent and needed your love
Only fist punches, metal rod lashes, finger nail pinches
Sometimes hair pulls, palm slaps, boot kicks and back hands
On better days the odd berating in public would do the trick
Yes, this was the only kind of love you had for me
The kind to pound me into the ground

Well now you’ve long been gone
All that you broke down in me, I’ve rebuilt
With tears and hunger and shrinking
The scars have healed and I’m whole
The love you withheld, I have found in myself












Nellie Nkosi

Mine eyes retain the scourge
      of love

       blueness bites vogue sun
  scarring moon-clusters in
    unyielding boughs lamenting
      this sidereal zither.

Mine eyes burn pale fire
     through chaffed hands pallid
      markings wall-scrunched
      and depthless now

      names wield swords as their
   sharp edges bequeath wound upon
   wound taking helm to helm,
        no shattered voice of pain.

  Mine eyes still these urgent
    importances distilling the
     crucial hour's wane - unreliable sundial seeking the sun
    to scale shadows telling time

     Mine eyes know
    her nudeness vague, her bareness clear, her voice splintering the woodwork of soul,
    keeping it in a jar,
    
    urn,
      rotundly incarcerated there,
    mouth sings lip-meanderings
      multiplied wolves at
     the door.

found in shells, if found at all
hide in shells, waiting for the call,
yeah
spring,
nay
winter weeping into the ground
last icy chill, to stave off the warmth
from the sun, that the ground absorbs,
and warms the whole globe in the
season.

The seeds are the ideas,
the shell or pods are what my
mind figures are the odds
of failure,
the deeper they are hidden,
or the harder the pod shell,
less than a hair's width of fruition,
season matters not,
any cold tears,
fall caught with
rest of the marks
of failure,
why is there no warmth,
even when standing
in full sun,
... feel none.

Dead so dead, so scatter me,
like seeds, scatter me
like chaffed wheat,
all on the wind of change.

there is nothing here, much fill of
the vacuous – just tired mesh;
a precise ruling
     of chaos, like how my mother told
me over folding clothes that i have
   my own way of destroying things.

dizzied and then clamped by my
way of default fixtures past furnitures
and a break on the lip of the wound
having knelt on a shard of glass
   age 7 in familial entrails —

knowing how heavy my steps were
by looking justly at worn-out shoes,
pieces of the Earth jammed on slits,
  their countenance earthen, exhausted
from the mundane. walls chaffed
from childish gnaws, drunk on turpentine.
stock-still hands of an old watch with
   dents for portrayal of agonies

in the dresser, clothes pretending not
  much to do

  and when it started to place its
  affect, i have learned enough to love
   was commonplace for hurt,
  and that there is a false horizon
  staring back through tough heads
of protruding nails, giving back a dignified
  image of contrition — in the mirror
a furiously slaughtered conjuring
   of what i once held in my hands
vivisecting to discover evidence
  fingers painted red, running the fugitive,
rogue without emphasis,
    
               hurrying back to home
  photographs nailed to their stations
  with cases fractured, deep into halved
   smiles, mother locating me with
an old chipped drinking glass, telling me
    i have my way
          of ruining things.

rain here by ransomed
drafts from warmer
continents

my space is chaffed
by the hidden soil
trailed from used
oceans

i, see

a stranded twirl
of stone pesce tail

still magic
despite miles
despite age
spites my eyes
spites vanity
bites
me

there. i am beguiled, so stand,
as i too wear into sand