Category Archives: Prose Poetry/Regular Poetry

She had cold fingers

tracing their way

along my sides – like a flash of

false pain.

There was an

unanswered knock

at the door

and an

unanswered knock

in my chest.

The shadows

raced through the room

as I waited.


Written for this week’s 

BeKindRewrite prompts:

Unanswered Knock

&

Cold Fingers

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Black Cat

I crossed paths

With a black cat

Hidden in darkness.

She watched me,

Watched me go,

She is the night.

I live a charmed life.

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The Night Closes In

Possums perch,

like gargoyles or grotesques,

guarding tree-branch archways and crippled, leaning fences.

The night closes in.

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Today

Man

I’m too

tired

To do anything

Other than write

This crap poem

Today.

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Gravedigger

Smoke curled, blue-grey-black

Into the night sky.

So damned cold.

He warmed himself

With the digging,

To get rid of this

Dead weight

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We Live in the Future

She laughs,

smiles,

flicks her hair at a boy

ten thousand miles away.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

They are in love.

I walk behind her,

and neither of them notice.

 

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Untitled Poem

I saw a girl

Hair aflame,

Twisting.

Reflection caught

A shop window

For her mirror.

I wonder

What does she see

Other than herself?

The Hunters

Spring Brood – Brynn Metheney

Spring awakens, amidst

cherry blossoms blooming and the soft

April showers.

Their hunter’s taste for flesh

awakens too.

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The Magician’s New Apprentice

Flower - an Unfettered image, by Terry Whidborne

Flower – an Unfettered image, by Terry Whidborne

I fell down,
into an ink-black,
confessional
darkness.
Swallowed whole.
It whispered
broken promises,
and told me
all the secret sins of my generation.
I obliged.

The voice,
disembodied,
led me away from the places I used to know.
The ghosts of places
I once haunted.
It taught me new illusions
and new conceits, as its
secrets awoke in me a strange flower –
a black mist, an emptiness, a magic
I had not known.

I fell down,
into that ink-black,
confessional
darkness, and stepped out
into the gas-lit streets,
weaving their blinding neon
into the curses that I already knew.

Ancient words,

never uttered on these

stained, goat-path, cobbled streets,

ancient words of power.

 

I scratched runes onto broken,

kicked-in doorways, hexes and wards.

Pictoglyphs, untranslated but
still-heeded by the mob.
I summoned vast intelligences,
forgotten demons, unloved gods.
They danced with me.
They surrendered their power.
Not willing, but willed.

I fell down,
I consumed that
ink-black, confessional
darkness. I made the world my own,
and cast off the fetters of mortality.
And now you, child.
I pass unto you this black flower,
my soul.
Together, we can watch
the world
catch aflame.

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Empty Windows

Union Canal at Night (04) - Bryonv2

Union Canal at Night (04) – Bryonv2

I always

Look

Through people’s windows

As I pass,

Trying

To snatch a glimpse

Of lives I’m not

Living.

Usually

   It’s just

Empty windows, lit up.

But sometimes,

Sometimes,

It’s

Empty people too.

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Sometimes I feel

                                      like I’m just

treading water.

                                 Breaking the surface,

                                                                             over and over

and over again,

                                 of that dark, mirror-pool inside me.

But not today.

                                 Not today.

Continue reading

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Truth in Fiction

I feel stuck.

In the moment, in the movement, in the shadows.

I feel stuck, mirroring the collapse.

In a funk, delayed, haunted by books and the images they throw, haunted by the notion of a work/life balance.

Haunted in crowded places, by faceless men and soulless women, by promise and potential and decay.

Their burned-out eyes, following me – where did everybody go?

That’s why I haven’t been writing much.

But I know how to break out of it.

I just have to write more.

Continue reading

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The sky fell.

Like spilled paint – thick, viscous.

Coagulating on the horizon.

 

She walked.

Through a crack in the absence – black-on-black, invisible.

Eternal. Empty.

Continue reading

Portrait

She stood undercover, waiting for the rain to stop (it never would.)

Her skirt buffeted, dancing like storm clouds (divine.)

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Storm Clouds

Lightning lit the scene,

the tableau frozen,

momentarily .

Until the darkness rushed in,

and the shadows began to move.

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Sacrament

The sudden kiss of flame illuminates her face in the darkness.

She inhales and tendrils caress her, blue-grey, life-death.

God.

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Wilfred Owen’s Death

Dulce et Decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 – March, 1918

Wilfred Owen died today, one week before the Armistice was signed to end the First World War. His Mother received the news on the day peace was declared. She collapsed on her doorstep, as church bells sung their celebrations of the end of war.

The “War to End All Wars.” 

If only. 

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The Unicorn

The Rabid Unicorn - Minna Sundberg

The Rabid Unicorn – Minna Sundberg

It spreads.

From one to another, at the breeding grounds,

leaving only

the wreckage of majesty

and the hunger

of the beast.

Continue reading

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Limerick

Sunday Sketch 60 by Terry Whidborne

Sunday Sketch 60 by Terry Whidborne

There was an old woman

who lived in a goose

she went to the bank

she had nothing to lose

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The tuning-fork sings
but its song
isn’t as sweet
as the smile
in my daughter’s eyes

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