Curved white, feathered neck, poised just right;
Half bird, half body, unfolds into bright light.
The face stays frozen, choosing not to show;
For the feathers alone, decide where eyes must go.
She glides and struts, poised with such fanfare,
Her garments become feathers to float on the air.
Her fine body vanquished, to shun any stare,
For she is merely the elegance, her garments wear.
She pauses, pivots, swings round, so debonair.
Her shoulder tilts, her wrist juts with flair.
Each measured turn commands its own grand grace.
As feathers swirl outward, to claim more space.
The white swans depart the catwalk in style,
Their black beaks can't even fashion a smile.
For that's the game— be serene, silent and proud—
Leaving only feathers to flit in the crowd.
The cliff juts high, it towers over water
Its head is dyed with silver-green and orange grass
I got the camera eye of watching walker
To reach the future that next second turns to past
I like to see the strangers who can’t see me
I sniff the scent of lavender and clover
I’m envying the trees and bumblebees
That buzz around, and when the walk is over
I switch to you, to see your smile again
To hear your words, if you may share some news
But fortunately, everything’s the same
As yesterday, and all those days we used..
His very bones smell of ocean
beard lashed with its salt
On land, rubber legs awkward
he gapes and he gawks
But rig him up a mast
billowy sails to go with it
Prow boldly juts forward ~
Thirty knots an hour, his ticket
Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt.
Blink razors carve her iris script.
Rib stars ovulate in feral grates,
mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath.
Keystroke ruin writes in collapse,
a waveform lodged in sternum glass.
Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim
Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts.
Tree-call through copper root systems.
Wire-pluck storm,
vapor chews the stock market
Cancer caught in molar hush,
brined in citrine static.
She opens her throat like a coin purse.
Spine bows in semaphore.
We dismount the edge—
An incisor cusp,
the confession still blistering
beneath the flesh of no language.
cat poised in window
the dear was raised with large dogs~
juts neck, barks meow
youth jaw juts raptly
staring down wisened old bull
passing cloud applauds
Ashen day turns into blackened night. One
limb of a lonely tree stripped of its
pre-fall leaves juts out against the
backdrop of an inked sky scraped
with gray. Dark clouds enfold
the full white moon, who
cannot break loose
from these strange
small hours’
grasp.
You may believe or not
Am really afraid of syringe shot
It does make me sweat a lot
When doctor fixes my slot
Fear swallows my guts
As the door shuts
Ouch, the needle on my skin juts
Then to divert pain I eat magic nuts
Nightmares reveal my plight
So, closing my eyes tight
My brain attempts to fight
And fastens the viruses with a bight
Next morning when I rise
With the swollen eyes
My heart deeply cries
Sighting at an injection that lies
Beside the bed
Again and again and again!!
Autumn, a time for reflections on reflections,
and they are rife, linked to pearly grey sky,
lake, puddle, mud strewn path or no,
while each steep cliff face boldly juts,
sheer defiance without concession or a budge,
through jagged edge loadstone chipping,
as the chilling froth-tipped sea mounts its saline tumult, irrespective of an iron cast continuing rebuttal.
One can pass the baton to u turn so turbulent,
within our mental recess at end of summer phase.
September signpost deigns to whisper,
of a scenic telltale hint and tint,
this somber colour gloss an imposition on July,
sunburst relish, such a sullen flashback,
amid the garden suite indigo plot,
beyond a purposeful utopian expanse,
which every avid green-fingered artisan must doff,
their pale straw rimmed hat to,
that transit between seasons, annual curtain drop,
awash with predetermined wish fulfilment,
glow upon each glitter that sparks our child,
eternal down the ages,
somehow yet an underlying dread might spoil
or pamper,
in such icicle entanglement so wicked in its frozen mosaic,
chase indelible precursor now more than ever so inevitable.
If I was a house I’d be detached
Secure in my walls, untouched
My roof angled against the rain
My windows, tightly shut, secure
My front garden neat, the back
Garden uncut, scruffy, untidy
My brickwork would be red
My front door council blue
My childhood had yellow doors
We never got the blue or green
My driveway would be long
Keeping the world outside
The gates would have a chain
Wooden panels attached to
The side walls, a gate cut
To enter the garden, via a path
A satellite dish juts from the wall
The signal welcome, the world not.
Because, if I was a house, I’d be detached.
David Cox 02/08/22
up a steep and narrow road
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap above the miry troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any mouth or ear
swale and quag dawdle
appear to seep listless
no
every bog tunnels shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather treading low
the moors mark nothing
only a head of gnashing wind
a whipping dinosaurs tail
blear and chill
bites and grapples
a stone-tusked marl
crofts under
tangles of un-spun fleece
in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket grit edges
wings beating back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
lime-cuffed history
before light founders deeper
black anvils appear
in the lowering
a scant anchoring
a bare farrowing
shorn and scoured aloft
by miles of orbiting
beauty
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls
What if all the accidents are the things that are meant to happen
if chaos is the norm
all those right decisions worng
Tremble
by Michael R. Burch
Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,
scans.
Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged thrust,
juts.
Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,
waits.
Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
tremble.
Originally published by The Lyric
This happens to me ever Fall
when the first frosts slick the grass,
I see the mercury plummet
and I hope the cold comes fast.
Though I try not to rush my life,
and enjoy things as I go,
come Fall I’m just a skier
who’s stuck waiting for the snow.
I wait for the first plume of breath
when I walk outside at night,
it means the snowmakers are out
coating ground in sheets of white.
They may cover but one real trail,
and the conditions often blow,
but it’s like crack to a skier
when they’re waiting for the snow.
While others hate the winter
and are warm besides the fire,
I dream of frozen mountaintops
as I put on my snow-tires,
of racing at highway speeds,
with my legs in zen-like flow,
in truth we’re much like addicts,
and our white powder is snow.
I love, then hate, the weatherman,
curse the Indian-summers too,
I’m ready for a powder slug
that my skis can juts blast through.
It’s such a first-world problem,
so make all the jokes you know,
but it sucks to be a skier
when you’re waiting for the snow.
The lake shimmers in the early breeze
Dancing rivulets of light kissed by the rising sun,
Reflecting passing clouds hopscotching with such ease
It heralds a new day just now begun.
Observing its environs with majestic grace
An Ibis meanders daintily along waters’ edge,
Confident in its prowess to outpace
Its curved bill natures’ dancing dredge.
A ripple breaks the perfect glass
A little beak emerges from the deep,
Imbued with curiosity and sass
The snapping turtle juts its head to peep.
All the while majestic palms sway to and fro
Their fronds fanning summers’ air,
From high the watch the mornings’ show
Shielding those below from radiant glare.
A perfect harmony of sights and sounds
It bathes the soul, lightens the heart,
Natures’ beauty truly knows no bounds
Of which we we’re blessed to form a tiny part.
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