Posthumous Pen

We sit, sharing your scotch and soul
renouncing the new, none nobility who
reside down the hall.
You colour me a story, about art reflecting life.
Where contrived painters, daub
their disjointed views, onto canvas’s
pinned to fragile walls of hope and hate.

Maybe I say.
But what about the unnoticed poets, who freed
their private thoughts
in black and white, pressed
between the pages new.
Works, where few,
seldom seem to go these days
until the writers been buried, deep
and in debt.

Then, up they rise
the new age, poetic apostle – airing
all those long faded, dusty words.
Bringing home to them, some posthumous
unheard of, literary award.

Well then, you smile.
It would seem that death does
have some rewards – so please before
you leave, my dear:

Pass me, my best poets pen…

We Are Sorry

How the Seasons, always
they do separate
when comes the time is final.

To leave us only, with their absent faces
falling swirling
caught between the brittle branch
of man, and wind.

Red random now, are those petals poor,
through
thoughts of tears
that bury deep, beneath our hurried feet.
In blacks and whites of reason
whose distance far divides
in what tomorrow strives to bring.

And, when the mornings, sunlight smile,
diluted in it’s length of stay –
shall dim to fade.

We, will offer no more
understandings of this fight.

But in words of empty, shallow ending days
I hope you understand:

We are sorry for your loss.

Drowning Daffodils.

You begged to go swim –
to sleep
deeply, of the fish and ocean.
So slowly with the rising of the tide
we sank to our knees, dancing
for reasons of know, knowing.

We had a love house
flooded plains, hidden from
the fat eyed women and flat capped men
who sat outside, beside their view of life
wagging their
tongues, of debased woe.

Remember when they found us, seaweed
rolled – with hair a mess and features
cold.
Didn’t I say – we needed to rise

but instead we kept on dancing
far beyond those fields of
golden, swaying daffodils…

No!

There is no one who can touch me
beyond my feelings, for that sleepless
red, gigantic moon.

Our love was not of art, metered
in verse, or painted in scenes that coloured
the watchful eye.

I will you, take flight –
not to return; taken by those suspect winds
that blow the chills through
uninviting doors.

No complaining – no intentions ever meant
no smiles, no voiceless regrets, now
long solitary reviving those times
on so many counted ifs!


You called me – your autumn
glazed in tones of fertile gold.
I replied, that autumn, always she comes to die
leaving those who once did touch her

brittle cold – buried deep as snow…

Intolerance

You know not my history
yet you would destroy me with no prior
proceedings.

My skin matches not your chosen shade
so in the back streets of ignorance
you colour me grey.

I speak not the language of your birth
but I too had a mother and father who
spoke only to me of understanding.

Never would I communicate to you
of war – yet kill me – you would.

There is nothing within in my DNA
that marks me not of human being.

Though in this, self chosen ignorance
you bring your own hate to batter down

my innocent beliefs…

Graffiti On The Train

I think I’ve had enough

gonna get myself a drink
before chiselling out your name
upon the passing subway wall.

You can verbalise me down
send my dreams nowhere bound
along with your, rough edged
explanations –
kicking hard against my reasons.

Why don’t you try to make me stay
plant me flowers – wild sown.
Colour out those visions of scenes once viewed
from dirty, bedroom windows
whilst sleeping all alone.

Call me sometime, filling
in those lost, empty spaces.

Can’t promise to ever pick up
still too busy reading:

Our forgotten
graffiti on the train …

Alice Unbound: Call for Submissions

Colleen Anderson

Hello, world, and happy new year.

books, publishing, collection, reprints, ebooks, Smashwords, writing, book production Creative Commons: Ninha Morandini

I can’t guarantee I’ll get more posts out this year but I can start with a bang. I last co-edited Playground of Lost Toys with Ursula Pflug. The anthology was nominated for an Aurora Award, as well as one author being nominated for an Arthur Ellis Award, and three longlisted for the Sunburst Award with Catharine MacLeod’s Hide and Seek winning in short fiction. Now, to hopefully repeat that sucess, I will be editing an anthology of speculative fiction, due to be published by Exile Editions in the spring of 2018. Read on for Alice Unbound guidelines.

Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson) explored childlike wonder and the bewildering realm of adult rules and status, which clashed in bizarre ways. Many characters in his tales are anthropomorphic, whether talking cards, crying mock turtles or saucy Tiger Lilies. Over 150 years later, people…

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Boys That Die…

ScarlettPoppies

Plateaus of splashed frenzied poppies
uprooted about your knees.
Rampant delusions dramatic of colour
hard faced delirium, breeds termite high uprisings.
Daddies perfect soldier – Mummies screwed up little boy.
Caught between the battle fields whilst still playing
with your toys.
Strung out whitened daisies –
Sunday’s fervent sabbatical.
Bayonet yourself a Sunday roast.
Give toast to all mankind.
Basement hate spread Belsen thick
Enfield to the head – pull the trigger
young man your dead…

Poppy  ~xx~ January 2013

boy

 

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At The Waters Edge

I always imagined her
longed neck –
paddling frantically
high and low.
Caught on the horizons sidelines
searching for that safe place to go.

How well she finally
homed that landing
with her salt-laden, sunshine smile.
The corners
of her mouth angled at ease, a tributary
of waters now long ago laid so wasteful at rest.

That once, straight backed shape –
now eel-like, curved in composure
fragile in this, her new found
sanctuary of endings.
Of all her reasons, left unadorned
in the nothingness of such a lonely
biting conclusion…

Poppy
25th January 2014