Mistresses…

There is an empty bed –
flowers red, of remembered afternoons.
In between the rushing of the home goers
stopping to assemble, her undone shoes
she clings to her battle scars, like an
over friendly balustrade.

Was there a deadline – a timeline
for being such a fool?
Yet in amongst the ashes of her reserve
tiny foretastes of their flesh –
of  those, occasions together:
Still cling tight.

Aureoles of wishful reprisal, knock
against her now absconded happiness.
It was the evenings, oozing their sour taste
in between the closing of the curtains
and looking across at the now
abandoned, empty bed, that made her say:
So  much for love – so little, for always being
second best…

Poppy November 2013 ~xx~

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Scheduled Migration…

Your hands lie open in the long, fresh grass.
Your stillness, diminishes the ending of this day.
You contrive to make like you’re alive
but in the setting of the sun
idle fingers, splayed in stone, render their
immortal acceptance.

I expect that the experts will tell it how it was
filed away somewhere, under – unnatural causes.
How it was – was you:
Always generous, beyond all.
Even now
how typically you
to plan your own scheduled migration…

 

Poppy November 15th 2013

Sleepwalking…

I am nothing –
And yet I am everything.
I crave no fame
only the desire to be remembered
stains my brow.
I fall – lie fallen
transparent wings
phosphorous flares and smoke
alight me.
Lucifer came a calling, walking
across my laid out ground.
I felt him, in the suspended moments,
before this, my untimely demise.
Life zig zags before me – light
slanting between the living, and the
already dead.
White heat eclipses the dust from
the running of their feet.
Animated howls, swaying in the wind.
I am free
And yet – unaccompanied
under the gaze of peace – Sleepwalking me
So very far; from home…

 

Poppy November 10th ~xx~

The Ploughman…

Why do you always shout at me
in the tongue of wild horses.
I request a shelter safe, from
your constant, herding storm.
Night fall – ceasefire, scrap
of paper – sorry – in your hand.
No translation needed to make
me understand – yet you keep on
pounding worn old tracks.


Meadows and mountains
lie beneath the same blue sky.
You whip me cold from the showers
lashing down from high
then spoil, all tranquil beauty
from the tears, you have me cry.
Recompense, you offer not an
empty vase – leaving me wary
of close breathe, between
the sea and shore.
Wash clean, not my thoughts, in sentiment
like so, many times before.
Barren empty, now stands the ravaged field
for the ploughman’s been and gone, though
I never heard his call…

Poppy November 2013 ~xx~