Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
They climbed
resuming the mongrel form,
The twelve.
A catcalling mob
burdened by sympathetic stimulants,
Procured from the neck.
Yippering yowls
break from a youth,
Torn from thick, incongruous lips.
As a pack
they leap onto the quivering metal,
Slender paws slapping on ice.
Ice all round;
leering...over bearing... ungracious ice
To aid their whimpering might.
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
The gust that holds your chest, immovable pride
From zealous ancients, to this is say farewell.
To this ardence I despair, hone your hatchet
But not for death, for pride, for fickle lies.
Imploringly I should stand upon those dead comrades
Who lie in the cultivated foreign soil: gone, dead, no more –
To speak the words you already know;
That this is you.
I speak for life, I make declarations for love
Sweet, spicy tasteless love; this is the only
Protection needed, when metallic claws invade.
The knowledge that out there,
Someone, somewhere ultimately will care.
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
Sweet as your gentle kisses were I cannot recall,
For now my sweet, keep naught white but my pall,
Listen not to my ghost who haunts men’s eyes,
But whisper to me now, whisper your goodbyes.
I have nothing more to give but my holder,
Do not keep our flame alight, please let it smoulder,
We can be no longer, just you and only you,
It is fair and denying that, would be untrue.
Never wonder, never dream of being bound again,
My mind has gone, for I am bane,
I wish it were different but my sweet,
I dare say never once more shall we meet.
I hold to you my candle, it's flame is weak,
Let it keep alight, let naught drop nor leak,
Understand my wishes, and put your heart at rest,
I love deeply, let me end my quest.
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
Grace is wasted, on the lost lips of Hope,
Like the charred, bereft bile that stains your tips.
The taste of your tongue, rough and fissured, hangs
Haphazardly on mine, mind alive with the
Temptation.
Should I take your eyes? Worthless as they seem,
As pitiful as the potholed, pits which run over your
Cheek. Do I forget my belt hung still
On the mantle of a youths old dream –
To surrender a second with you?
Time has no feeling, when only with ancient eyes
Can you implore, duty bound to protect alien kin. I
Have forgotten them; like they never touched my name
With long closed lips. You came then, blue waste in the
Poison of your breath, sterile to my protest.
Do it, unlock it, steal my heart. Take the words of great
Fallen men, call them your own lies. Deny the courage,
Carnage fought for the sweet silver of earthen skies, bite
The dripping apple still hung on my frostbitten lips.
Unlock it with the simple caress of your death enticing tips.
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
A lover’s dance is but twice the pain,
Dark and in duress
I have shamed.
But you prolong your steps,
The dew upon your forehead; askew.
Dare I stroke the flourished flower
that is draped upon your cheek.
An alibi of love is languidly dropped
from burned lips.
I hear you cry-
Yield!
Give me all.
Is it marvelling what you do?
The gentle atonement
of my force.
Dare I strive with you
in this – durst I?
The touch deepens and in my might
weakness is the only approach,
that dark eyed smile plying your lips –
for you have won.
A battle of ease, even on my knees
I am lost.
You have made me lost to all of light,
Here my love may end it’s plight.
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
My father lays sleeping on the couch,
No sound is audible, his face a pall of white,
The crinkled jaw my youth hardly saw, unhinged and opened wide
As if waiting for the words to say.
Too late.
As I watch I notice
The fine rivers his skin holds, time has ravaged him delicately
And yet; is the brow not creased? Savagely
I laugh, quick my hands stifle me.
Silence me.
The eyelids flicker as if the smooth wick
Has not been put out, heart racing
I check the smoke, it still rises. Burnt;
My cheeks
Sting, what might those subtle eyes see?
For he is no canvas,
Slack jawed and sprawling,
No mighty king here, the drool that hangs from his lips no jewel,
Youth conquered by battling age:
A smile cracks my lips, smoking
I put the barrel down; lay it upon the coffee stained wood,
One final glance behind,
My father, his flame is gone.
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
Words in life
are easily scorned,
derisively decided worthless
and yet;
I hear it, whispering through the wind,
welcome in anticipation...
your voice.
Sealing those canvasses
shut.
Waiting, on words
the brushed bruising of lips,
quickly accepting of my own
two, too blushed,
too blooming.
It is not just words I wait on
but your touch;
crushing the chasm inside
to build me.
Only then can the sparrow nestled on my chest
fly - fly free
to your arms.
Oh - encompass me?
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
I saw you touch the raw ember of a fire
With naught but the purity of your tongue,
Calm set, poised heart held high
Vulnerable to all that might strike,
Centuries passed without cries parting
Your lips, ebony lips from deceased bones.
You stand on their outstretched limbs.
I felt you brush the land with nectar
For the benefit of cutting it away,
Barren earth displayed, riddled with rust
Yet tangy with the malicious force –
Force of those that set your fate
In immortality, the fame of those long gone.
A future in your quaking palms.
I know you with your high strung boots
Which trample all protests with a simple clack,
I know your fear, reverent in every quavering promise
Of life, of hope, of the rich honey that runs thick
In harsh blown trees and the thick rain on grass,
Your key is locked within the hollowed tomb of age
And time, to speak your rhythm to all.
You are the revolutionary, you are the start.
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
It soars, a winged beast dripping with
tender nectar – life,
Whole of sky nurtured with every
beat, the beat, the beat…
Impossibility etched in every span
and the remaining?
Impossibility to catch –
catch such life.
He’d still try, grim mannered
surely? No grace in his hack
attack.
Smacking the essence with feisty might
more extravagantly than a child’s plight
to see what might diminish this light.
Spark, glimmer on water.
Gleaming glances of colour
bouncing of a smile.
Life.
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Bethany Chipperfield Poem
Each Second; an hour,
waiting. Constantly waiting.
For you.
Can't you see I'm shaking, quaking?
Destroyed masterfully by a shiver -
tearing up my spine,
ripping me deep.
Still, I wait for your promise
of simple words,
Yet
words are the only things that mean,
anything. Anymore.
Cold has struck higher, harder
hacking me deeply.
Cut into veins of ice, now I'm
devoid of hope.
Any hope of you.
Numb overtakes me, lacerates me, berates me
each limb now lost,
only for you.
Misguided I am left.
Waiting. An Eternity of waiting.
Left,
No hope.
No feeling.
Alone.
Copyright © Bethany Chipperfield | Year Posted 2012
|