Watching Suns

chrisnelson61

She sat and watched the suns

Come and go as if they were

Strangers passing on the bitter streets:

A nod, a glance, perhaps a smile.

They rose in the levelled east,

Fought their way to the highs of their days,

Then struggled to climb each obstacle,

The mountains of the west.

She watched from the window

The porch and the gate

As the clock stole the hours,

Spirited them away,

And filed them under ‘lost’.

Emerald vines grew like memories

Creeping slowly over the garden fence,

Tendril-fingers seeping into the grain

Tenderly choking the life unlived.

She watched the marks of the years

Engrave themselves into her hands,

Pathways followed and gone,

And so many dreamed,

Her face the scorched and dried

Map of ages,

Marked, but abandoned before the mark of treasure

Had burned itself into her.

And the suns still came

And the suns still died,

And…

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Pantomime ~ The Used Life

The world is high enough
The sky is on the second floor
Ten tiers and a castle
Peering through the eye slits
of the morning, a connecting wire,
two dungeons and a beetle,
an elevator where the moon lives,
nipping at the bower like a starfish

There’s a boudoir with no name
Where the mirrors are high and the panties
ride low and the women stain the cups
with red lipstick and the men play
solitaire with one hand, not two
Four fingers and a thimble

A room where all the aces are spades
Where the world is inside out and
everything is a reflection
of everything else
and all they can think to do is
mute their mouths on a mattress
and pull up their pantylines
Pantomime, a shot of gin and a stale cigarette

The chime of a smartphone
Give your girl a kiss and tell her she’s pretty
A sentence like a sphinx
A thumbprint
A swipe of the hands
(There is no ending)
In the castle that opened its doors
to the skin of the world
Unknown
Except through a language
of signs and plastic arrows
That hides the empty sky from our faces

In the room of no heroes
Where all the endings are written
somewhere in California in that
no name city six floors down
where once upon a time the earth
slept in its cradle and
Jack and Jill set fire to the pear trees
and Cinderella flung off her pumpkin
while Snow White shot pool with
the seven dwarfs stripped
down to their hats

And none of the stories they tell
have any beginnings
And their eyes keep reading
And their hands keep catching stars
But the world’s not high enough
Just not
high
enough

LIKE A CAT ON A HOT TIN ROOF ~ BOJANA STOJCIC

I wonder why we are all unique in one way or the other. Because of who we are? (Too shallow). It’s because we are throughout our lives shaped by our experiences, people we meet, people we don’t, schools from which we graduated or dropped out of, careers we pursue or stopped pursuing, trains we caught […]

via LIKE A CAT ON A HOT TIN ROOF — BOJANA’S COFFEE & CONFESSIONS TO GO

1969 ~ Samantha Rose

The wheels on the wagon don’t work like they used to,

they’ve stopped turning around the axel.

Rust has collected between the hinges

of about the same shade his hair used to be

 

long ago

when the war began

and bombs fell from grey skies

as dust settled amongst the cries of the wounded.

 

Newspapers sang of the death toll

as she waited to see his name

buried among the obituaries

or for the day

 

she would stop receiving tattered letters

scrawled in cheap ink in his damaged handwriting.

They’re saying the war was unjustified,

she felt so too.

 

And she waited for him to come home,

and he did

one day, long ago

when all hope dissipated

 

from her azure eyes.

And she waits for him again now

at the side of the hospital bed

but the wheels on the wagon don’t work like they used to.

 

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018


You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.

Unburdened — Brandewijn Words

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

In silent veracity the falseness
Comes alive and steals the night.
Dwelling in temerity it ticks and tocks,
Takes time from me in gasping gulps of air.

The trigger of one’s validation
Slowly breeds anticipation that
Builds and builds until it falls
Like castles small and made of sand.

The raging winds that push the clouds
Along the blue green river of sky
Will not deny me of my truth nor
Hide the rains within these oceans.

For simpler men the world reveals
Little of her appeal locked within
A mind of magic amazement and allure.
Captured moments that breathe deep.

So slumber now devoid of doubt
Within yourself, but then without
Your sacrificial blade. The keen edge
Tracing lines that only one can see.

© Brandewulf 2018

via Unburdened — Brandewijn Words

Nothing Changed – Chris Nelson

Nothing really changed at all,

The mark still stayed upon the wall,

And as we looked for something new,

Behind our backs it grew and grew.

Though we thought that we’d moved on,

The chains that held us were not gone,

And darkness clouded all our arts,

And spread its blackness through our hearts.

Things we thought that we had tamed,

Clung to our shadows hurting, maimed,

To heal themselves when night took hold,

Our sweetest dreams to then enfold.

In the light it brought its gloom,

In every corner, every room,

The stain it grew with fitful glee,

To pin us here and make us see.

Every footstep brought us here,

But never freed us from our fear,

Hung heavy over every head,

And coloured every word we said.

Dreamed we’d come so very far,

Our feet stuck fast in blackened tar,

We felt we had so much to prove,

Only to find we couldn’t move.

And nothing really changed at all,

The mark still stayed upon the wall,

And as we looked for something new,

Behind our backs it ever grew.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61

Chupacabra ~ Samantha Rose

Obsidian melts off my glinting fangs

as cosmic rivers gleam down rippling spines.

I lurch out toward the rolling emerald pastures,

brush struck naked under the cut of my tail.

 

Goats, unaware, feed off the land below.

Crickets silence and scatter as my claws crunch

the dry leaves, like brittle, crackling bones licked dry

by smelting flames.

 

Closer now.

A bubbling odor creeps off my scaly flesh,

filling the desolate earth from the ground

as murmurs stretch louder,

 

echoes gurgling up in the gut of the valley.

Until

silence.

Tomorrow they will find

 

punctures buried in the fur caskets

of blood-drained bodies,

my hunger satisfied

for one more night.

 

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018


You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.

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