Category Archives: Uncategorized

Cenotaph

A final thought on a dignified day

Fridayam's Blog

An empty tomb, without trophies,

grave-goods, food for the dead,

sacrificed servants, horses or their

caparisons, armour or

weapons, fine linens, dried flowers,

images of warriors, scenes of

pomp or nature or love or

lust, naked of

grinning bones or dust,

holding nothing but

immured air.

View original post

Advertisements

The Abcess of Absence

He swore he heard her on the

upper floor, or

at the door, her key

scratching for entry from the

outer dark, or her soft

snores in the night,

turning to his right,

hoping to feel her

spooning warmth to

heal his sores.

Under Cassiopeia

Fridayam's Blog

I dream sometimes of seeing

someone else’s spaceship amongst the

stars above my house, its

tell-tale amniotic burn unequivocal

unlike the odd unflashing jet that

just seems to evaporate into the

overcrowded air, into the

mad world of my Masters,

under the big W, under

Cassiopeia

View original post

Faces over Time

Fridayam's Blog

She gave me birth, he fathered me;

he turned down the Croix de Guerre because his

donkey got one too;

she descends from Joan of Arc’s bad brother;

I held her still bloody from her mother;

he died a few weeks back, and at his

funeral I saw him and her, and

those two bickering;

he’s bigger than me now, but his first school shirt

still sits in my drawer;

she is still as beautiful as when I

caught her then, unaware of a lens.

Us, our children, our parents and theirs,

sisters, brother, nephews, nieces: all adorn our

dark hall, framed against time but still

silently fading.

View original post

¿Qu’es de ti, desconsolada?

Fridayam's Blog

Like dribs of rain on a drab day your

worries leaked through the roof making

puddles in the public rooms that I

couldn’t hide or adequately

explain to those astounded by the

unexpected deliquescence of your

seemingly solid persona.

View original post

The Smouldering Past

Fridayam's Blog

The past smoulders long in the memory,

the savour of its sticky,

woody smoke seeping from

long-forgotten photographs, clothes

neatly folded in attic-buried trunks,

documents—letters, bills, old

school-reports, medical files, certificates

(marriage, birth, achievements or the

lack thereof)—even the scent of

old spices in stove-worn pans.

 

The smoke hangs in the autumn trees

catching the low light, silhouetting the

stubbornness of spiders, every branchlet

webbed, every web freighted with tiny

droplets of dew, each as clear, as

murky as a memory.

View original post

Fall Fell

Fridayam's Blog

Fall fell through the

crack in the floorboards, and we

tore them up, desperate to

stave off Winter.

Maybe we could burn them

if we cannot find that

lost shiny coin, our

last memory of Summer?

View original post

Moonlife

Fridayam's Blog

I

New Moon

rocks in its cradle

blissfully unaware.

II

Young Moon bashfully hides behind

curtains of cloud, scared by

all those eyes turned on her.

III

Half Moon, half adult,

half kid, uncertain,

slutty, defiant.

IV

Gibbous Moon, sure she’s pregnant,

remembers no father or parents to be

mad, determined to go to term.

V

Full Moon doesn’t give a shit, splashes her

cash about the sky, free of any

doubt or shame.

VI

Gibbous Moon bemoans her

mommy-belly, is wistful and wonders if

there’s a gym nearby.

VII

Half Moon has a terminator to die for but

worries something else is

eating her inside.

VIII

Old Moon looks at what’s left, remembers

reaching out a lazy foot to

rock a baby.

IX

No Moon gives the stars once,

and once only,

free rein.

X

New Moon

rocks in its cradle,

blissfully

unaware.

View original post

Mongrels

We are all mongrels:

our genes all spent time

somewhere else, on

cold tundra, windswept

steppe, damp jungle,

hot savannah, in

bogs or genteel shires,

cantonments or kraals; on

Viking ships or galleons,

slavers or dugout canoes we

spent ourselves about the world so

not one of us is pure.

Embers

Fridayam's Blog

Equinoctial winds fill September’s sails:

she creaks, complains, strains

ropes that must be loosed, and slips

inevitably away.

We run along the foreshore desperate to

keep her in sight, but the

horizon demands her and

suddenly she’s gone, just as the

first ember sail of Autumn

pierces the dusk.

Her berth is ready, roofs repaired,

windows fastened: for

fleet following her are the

Black Ships of Winter,

one by one.

View original post

Atropa Belladonna Von Coup

reader , writer , poet , person .

Diana Marin

Fine Art Photography & Poetry.

Rusted Honey

Poetry, haiku, tanka, and micropoetry

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