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…

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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

 

Snapped

The trees suggest
to me of dancers.
Weaving their brittled bones,
skilful on the breeze of winter’s
rebellious motion.

Supple indications, shaping
and shedding – sapping
the act of soon to be springtime’s
rejuvenation.

From such rugged growth to
sway of draping bodies bowed
No cries of encore –
No plaudits please, screech their moans
stricken they, amid
their arching
breaking limbs of woe:

Left now for wasted all
dying in the unkind cold…

 

Poppy Jan 2017~xx~

Searching For Her Monet.

She painted the seasons
outlined a Monet in all of his
most vibrant hours.

Life, had gifted her nothing
outside the slap dash imagery of tragedy
conceptual in it’s primitive need.

She daubed splendour – in full
blown colour
monochrome approval mutilating
her body’s refracted light.

She came tutorial prepared –
drawn into existence:
Always

looking for her creator.

Transition

Where we tread – seldom sees the
sun of summers now abbreviated days.
Blackberries un-ripenened mass, on mass
as through the scumbled leaves – she skips
innocence still playful about her lips.

She finger flicks the plentiful untouched fruit
scratches running arms length
delicate pink, across her tender
childlike skin.

We stop, catching the richly spiced
choral woodland sound.
She stops to look
wanting to ask – before I place a finger
softly against her mouth.

I sense she understands
with her eyes now wide, mourning
this, the passing of her childlike
deflection

As she – the girl
who once was:

had suddenly became me…