I found a blog not long ago that always inspires me to do… something, even if only in a document. This is not a patch on his work but I wrote. Thank you Lance Sheridan. Please visit his amazing writing.
Does winter’s plague
beckon the drowned
who find solace beneath?
Accustomed to the connecting
seasons floating by, they endure
the frowned face stares
tentatively mirroring their own
above taught ice.
Caught in between coldness,
a new age and only a hint
of the smell of warmth
from heads butting on this hard glass
they hurl and shout –
but nothing will reach the surface
till spring time –
a time eagerly awaiting
the scathing torture in their
rambunctious voice –
and not until, after a crack of ice,
thick and headstrong,
all hell is let loose,
if hell, that is, were suddenly,
to become heaven, and spring is reborn.
Cotinus Young Lady-SmokeBush-writingasitcomes
Been gardening again… love this plant.
Strokes of moonlight smother
whispers of the smoke bush
wavering against twilight’s
while pondering the water,
pondering depth and death.
Subdued, hushed panicles warp,
inside black steel ripples
made by water splashed sedge warblers
flung across the sheen of bleak, black,
where streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –
a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of water
and of life –
finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.
I recently submitted to the magazine I am not a silent poet, and I am so pleased to be published today. Syria – Face in the Crowd.
Also, I received my copy of Fiction Magazine who published a short story of mine two days ago.