Strangers Eyes

I held both my children

fresh from their mother

strangers eyes

searching mine for

answers I have never

quite worked out.

Advertisements

Cloud-Arks

I want to board those

strange dark shapes of the horizon

those cloud-arks

fully-freighted and

already shipping out south on a

freshening breeze

bearing me

wherever they please.

Spring/Summer

The daffodils are blown, the

tulips past their best, the

blossom snows in

sudden squalls as

leaves unfurl and

Spring’s mayhem

slowly gives way to

Summer’s drab somnolence.

Candle Break

By candle-light you look like a

mediaeval Madonna, full of

thought, contemplation, perhaps a

little mourning for

what once was.

 

But am I allowed to make such a

comparison in a world full of

thought police, deciding exactly

which words I can safely use to

hymn my love?

Berlin Bed

The bed was such a world once: of

sweat and semen and the

wonderful effusions of

womanhood; of strain and stains;

contortions and cramps;

saliva and stamina;

sticky bodies entwined in

sated exhaustion.

 

But now the moonlit room

sits still: no moans or

groans of pleasure; no

pillow-muffled screams;

just the sullen

shriek of silence, the

Berlin Wall of blunt knees and

sharp elbows.

Hopscotch

Hopscotch

Either nature likes sending

complicated equations to

tease our cerebral cortex or

it has a bizarre notion of

how to play

hopscotch.

Fear Not

Filming funerals in Hendon, London, sitting in the cold Crematorium chapel, reading the memorials whilst waiting for things to begin. I have not made this up.

Fridayam's Blog

We worked three days amongst the dead,
who weren’t bothered by our
bubble of busy-ness in their
acres of ash, bones, stones:
not the Chinese, sober slabs
slashed with gold logograms; nor the
Italians, severe in studio photographs,
enamelled, impervious; nor the
Hindus, bedecked with flags, beneath their
special shrines, artlessly recreated;
nor the nexus of North Londoners in
whose bosom they repose.

Sullenly swallowing delay, my eye
caught a simple plaque:
‘F.E.ARNOT’. Were his parents
sending him a message? Did he
heed it? Use it as his motto when
dealing with work, wine, women?
He doesn’t sound much loved,
memorialised sans given names,
respected at a distance, like a
Headmaster or a stern father, but
was he, at the last, able to say
“I fear not”?

Checks are called: we are
poised to shoot; Make-up
tweaks hair, powders sheen;
Costume collects enough
cover-coats to equip an
Arctic expedition; my…

View original post 13 more words

The Doll of Her Future

Fridayam's Blog

She dressed the doll of her future in finery, in

shreds of shared destinies torn and

tattered only by time not

happenstance, nor by the

drudge of laundry, not

mouthed by moths but

lovingly conserved in the

museum of her past.

(With thanks to D.M.)

View original post

Early Music VII

Fridayam's Blog

François Couperin “Les Lis Naissans” (Treizième Ordre)

 

I see them first in church

from my eyrie when I

have no need to play,

buds blooming with no thorns

sitting quietly by their

blown Mothers, waiting their turn.

 

I see them next at Court

saddled and bridled, ready to be

ridden hard, their small hands

clutching mechanically at

anything that’s offered

except the reins.

 

I see them most at

Pompes Funêbres,

burying babies, each one a

new furrow in the

badly ploughed field of a

once-pleasant meadow.

 

I see them last in church

followed by the buds that

bested Winter to be

measured for bridles on this

altar bestrewn with

Easter.blossom.

 

Me? I just play to numb whilst I

make music in my mind that

hymns wasted hymens, sad Mothers

leading daughters to slaughter, hoping that

somewhere beauty and the heart

are aligned.

View original post

The Parliament of Birds

Fridayam's Blog

Caw, caw—I hear you,
Clawing through the frosty sky,
pale blue above this eastern suburb.

Rooks and crows mark the migrations
and the first cold tinkerings
of their welcomed Winter.

The rivers here will not freeze
nor will we grow too cold in our homes,
cocooned in central heating, battened in duvets.

But the gospel oak is riven and the birds
chant requiems over the city in which
we sought to shut out fear.

They fly eastwards to Essex,
old witch country, commutered now,
but still too dark at night.

On the wing over Epping, circling
the storied Parliament of Birds,
they lobby coldly, exchanging iniquities.

If you walk too near there in session
Black Rod, white lie, magpie appears
to test you on your knowledge or your fears:

“Shoo, shoo, I’m not scared of you” you say,
or with more care than courage
“Hello, Sir, where’s Madam?”

About you…

View original post 6 more words

Turning the Lights Off

Random musings inside my head no matter how hard I try to shut the damn lights off

Southern Georgia Bunny

Adventures of an Southern Bunny everything from dating, sex, life and shake your head moments.

Secret Dates Diary

Secret Dates Diary of Anne Regina

Hannah likes dirty words

Writing, extracts, pleas to buy my books, the odd essay.

word and silence

Poetry, History, Mythology

The Cat's Write

Milly Schmidt

ELLEGUYENCE

New content every Sunday

Love Hate Sex Cake

Musings on a Libidinous Life

Krystal Minx

My Colorful Life as a Bisexual Minx…real life tales with the man I love, and our fun-filled shared playmates…and all things about being the woman that finally discovered how to be ME and what LIVING LIFE is all about <3

R. A. Douglas

Dream big! Live bigger!

burning ambulance

a journal of arts and culture

The Used Life

Experiments in the Art of Mastering None

365 dni w obiektywie LG

365 days a lens LG