He glimpses her, the peripheral life of her,
she abides in the corners of his eyes.
She is a tidal tug upon his shoreline,
salt for his blood.
Arcane atoms carry her presence
over tenuous thresholds.
She strays through his thoughts
upon SilkRoad visions.
She does not see him as a person,
but traces his nocturnal journeying
over her nomadic mind.
She is not a fantasy, nor flesh.
Mothwings and mist
clothe them in webs of intimacy.
He chases a midnight shimmering
that always alludes any palpable grasp.
Yet, she is no thread-thin phantom,
but what she is - he could not say,
and if he knew
he would not tell.
The blade cut deep
She died laughing
Death was a relief
Unlike her life
Riddled with betrayal
He noticed no blood flowing from her hateful body
He was always sure she was bloodless
She certainly lacked all human feeling
But even a witch like her would possess some blood
He bent down to check just as she was rising
Something in his brain registered
Sudden disbelief, sudden shock
Words in mouth froze
As the knife entered his neck
Spurting blood in all directions
His fingers tried to stem the flow
She watched him
Fascinated at the pattern, he was painting
So strange she thought
He always said she was the bloodless one.
In your bosom concealed, you are a fighter:
Who doesn’t a single matter take lighter;
The closest chap to you making a big mistake,
As you wouldn’t care what it‘d take
Inside your bag, some folk is about to drop dead
Like some hapless character in novels read:
A murderous slashing of his windpipe
Or a jugular discharging services of the same type.
Soon traced to you, sun handcuffed,
A strong belief you should be in a prison overstaffed;
In others a polite advice to you by the police
To go and hire a very smart lawyer
Be you Humphrey, Allen or Eunice
Or for that matter Tom Sawyer…
Unless it didn’t land –a dagger
Even bloodless angels would stagger!
So did the poet write on fading dawns
words to float across the pond as swans
white stanza a-dance against blue sky
ivory wings defy the wind and fly.
Dewdrop diamonds hung among tall brush
eerie voices whispering in dusk’s hush
scribble truth upon the shapeless mist
inviting passersby to listening‘s tryst.
Sunset’s solemn setting set ablaze
a look, a touch, a kiss become a craze
soft moons adrift across an age
painted words upon an unread page.
Darkness cannot obscure this light
left dormant on the shelves of night
yellowed corners of crumpled dawn
await silent prick of bloodless thorn.
©4/9/2018
submitted to – New Poems Only – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Emile Pinet
There is a glare of stray sunlight
daring to reverberate
through spiderwebbed glass I haven't
found energy to fix
in the span of four years.
It is too much of a mirror,
too tangible a thought,
to make new.
It's lithe fingers, thin and bony,
and mockingly bright,
steal over embossed cardstock that arrives, like clockwork,
in deepest sympathy.
And a thornless bouquet of pastels laden with
Babies Breath
only draws on blood long lost;
nobody seems to comprehend such an allegory,
or lack there of,
so it can't be carried
over the steps.
"Bloodless On Mother's Day"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
deep hurts of the heart,
soothed by forgiving,
soft healing of the soul's
bloodless bleeding !