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:
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…
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…
I always imagined her
longed neck –
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.
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