Shipwreck – Allie Nelson

There’s the pull of the tide of Azazel, dragging me down to obsidian depths where lampreys from alien worlds suckle at the teat of Leviathan.  Your arms are the Cambrian ocean, and I am a fabled creature long extinct, many legged like a sea scorpion, scuttling to your lips to latch on with pedipalp that can breathe both in and out of water.  My progeny will leave your bosom and flee to the shore, shipwrecked on pearly sands, and weave webs to capture sparrows and dragonflies and voles.  Feasting on your salty skin, I know the great extinction is fast approaching, be it comet or climate change or ocean acidification, and your shores will dry up and your cliffs of ice at the poles will pummel me as glaciers crash against my chitinous exoskeleton.  This is just a metaphor for how we fight, me the small arachnopod navigating your waves, for you encompass worlds with your H20 and I am just a small resident in your underwater hotel room, and you are the whole of Atlantis.  They will say your treasures were buried ten leagues below when your pride became too great and you challenged the gods, but I know Jormungandr was thrown into the sea because he grew so great he could eat the nine realms, and you are ravenous – for my kisses, for my sex, for my breasts bobbing in your aquatic hands and my whole body in the mud of the Dead Sea, healing in your salt.  It is all a dream of sailors, to marry a mermaid, to pledge their troth to a nokken that fiddles desire and tricks on cold Norwegian seas where my ancestors roamed.  And so I say, Poseidon, grant me one wish.  To forever be your siren, singing humans to doom at your breast aback the undertow of your liquid love.  I will serve you well I promise, o my captain, for I am like a buoy, constantly riding out tempests with cheery red and yellow paint so my lobsterman – you – can find me and the Maine treasures below.  The ocean takes all, nutrient overflows and algal blooms and bodies rotting so only the feet float above, and it has claimed me since I was baptized in your cold New England waters.  In truth, we are the shape of water, which has no shape, but we can boil, and we can steam, and we can bubble, and we can freeze, so I say, let us be the transformation of each other and discover what this love means when the mast falls and the captain’s daughter falls for the admiral.  We can be pirates of the Milky Way, plundering nitrogen oceans for diamonds, sailing Jupiter’s storm, and all the while I will be singing sea shanties (all sea songs are composed in your honor, oh great Oceanus) and throwing prisoners off the plank.  The sea is not merciful, the sea is all-consuming, and so we feast on each other, drinking down starlit riptides.  I fill my belly with the waters of God’s Deep and then I know, I am just sand and coral and dissolved calcium carbonate, a statue sunken deep, and you cradle my wreckage so softly, so love, consume me with your gravity, and let me drown.

If I cut a word in two… Iulia Halatz

I wouldn’t have lusted

for your limbs

softened with

iron syllables.

I wouldn’t have lusted

for your shiny dark eyes

like the sea

lit by two moons…

We could wake up

to what we were…

You

breathing the air of

another planet…

basking in an estranged sun…

When winds

herald the evening

the stirs are in the

dunes

and the communal

place of storms.

I

braved a lackless sea

for naught

My kisses tell you

of another small

and drifting planet

where water

falls from the sky

and blows away

the ink of dusky clouds.

The sands tug

at my feet

and quarrel like ghosts

dervishing

blindly in the whirlwinds….

There is a hole

in the world

where you stood

brazenly stealing

the burnishing silver

of two Moons.

Yet you continue

to hurtle constellations at me.

You fumbled for Orion

and you stumbled

as I inhabit

my spell-forged star

to enhance

blandly

the clear lights of greener planets.

Oh, how I miss my autumn roses!

They carry the pungent smell

of sea and decay

to your world of

liquid sands

and honey torpors.

My finitude and fragility

are yours

The heart you melted

drips down with

dews of late

that put the sands

forever in my soul.

I have a sieve

that sifts

grains from dusts.

They heat and burn

my skin

like thousand cerulean touches

that freed me

from the toils

of lingering moons.

I will love you

for a hundred years of Blue

and for the handsomest years

of Grey and sand Yellow

that will follow.

 


“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

The Bellowing Arbour – Jonathan O’Farrell

How much power do you need,
to take from us?
Have we not heard already years,
half asleep, just awake, degraded humanity,
to hear?
Enough perhaps,
to hear the obvious,
our arms swirling.
Perhaps a groaning,
in another over-energetic cyclone.
Be neither comforted
nor distracted,
by thoughts of summer,
just elapsed.
For purring black felines
on your lap,
nor even the singing,
of domestic draughts,
through your cat flap
speak the language you need,
to hear.
Your arbour brothers
and their brides have,
in these shortening days,
hastening wet footings.
And as yet their arms be semi-clothed.
As such and sucking they stand vulnerable,
to that one time,
in how so many years,
storm.
Their time early,
too early?
Smote storm stricken betwixt,
the north and east seas.
Cat curled there around my bedding
and my lax hand around a cooling tea.
Dance,
partners of thundering timbre,
into more of my unthinking time.
But for my brothers
and sisters reach,
oh reach
and bring onto them,
thy swirling beseeching.
Bash their brittle panes,
of protection.
And shriek,
time!
Time is nigh,
civil sleepers.
Come now to the earthen floor,
and rotate all your minds.
Shift swiftly,
into healing embraces before all,
you think you know,
is taken back,
rightfully,
to ancient unyielding slime.


“I guess you might describe me as a semi-nomad, at the moment . . . and in the moment, I might change. I am transitioning into a creative life, blogging, photography and, significantly, the publication of my first two photographically illustrated poetry anthologies, this year.”

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https://misterkaki-writer.substack.com

A Meadow – Kristiana Reed

You are standing in a meadow,

it is lush green,

the kind people talk about

from the other side.

Life swells in pockets;

a city of daisies,

a bumblebee filling it’s knees,

tall tulips swaying in the breeze,

a buried village in the undergrowth

ants, woodlice and centipedes.

Sunshine weighs heavy

on your back,

on your shoulders,

your eyes water

and you cannot understand

what has brought you here;

to the edge of life in colour,

swimming in jewelled flowers,

the taste of pollen on your lips,

petals embracing the sun

the smell of hope –

poisonous joy.

 

You could step forward,

bare foot, unguarded

risking your soul for a chance

to choose the flowers

you adorn your home with.

 

Behind you is a forest,

shadowy fingers lingering

about your waist

stretching toward your throat,

to regain a firm hold

on your senses and pull

you into the shade.

Life thrives here too, but unseen;

amber eyes becoming accustomed

to the night sky,

families burrow in the roots of great oaks,

hedgehogs find homes in autumn debris,

birds call and mate in the trees,

in the dust of your footsteps.

When you began, it was a stroll,

an amble into the unknown.

It grew dark with heavy boughs

as heavy as your chest,

threatening to end all light,

snuff out the life

under your collarbone.

 

At times you walked through clearings

and on the trees you saw her face,

theirs and mine

but never yours.

 

Now you’re here, still standing

in a meadow

wondering what brought you

to this quiet place.

In the blue sky

there is the reflection of a man

beckoning you forward.

He is kind,

he dreams in orange and purple,

he believes in love,

he has led you here

past our faces embedded in bark

to see yours, for once,

in the blinding sun.

 

Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.

Play Dead – Introducing Kristiana Reed

Monster is living inside of me

behind my ribcage,

she curls herself around my spine

draws her fingers to my throat

to stroke my collarbone,

to deliver raspy breath to my ear

repeating the words

on which I always choke –

my name, my wants, my needs,

my apologies, my fury –

and the dust from the bones

she’s grinding with a gummy jaw.

 

Sometimes she sinks down

to bask in the darkness of my womb,

recline in my pelvis

and drag her nails up my thighs

and down my calves, towards my feet

where she binds me with manacles,

shrieking maniacally

words garbled with my sins –

breathing, praying, hoping,

talking, waiting –

for this torture to end,

for Monster living in my head

and the hollows of my heart,

to vanish and leave me

to play dead.


Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.

 

Stargiver – Iulia Halatz

The stars that glisten

on October skies

are green

like water lamps.

 

I am plotting

a story for you…

Letters are meant

to be sent swirling

my brokenness cripples

my words.

I am silhouetted

letters can’t mix

I need another alphabet.

My alphabet of you

is made of syllables:

Sky

Why

Lie

Shy…

 

Do not despise

my syllabary

You have a tale

boiling in my chest…..

 

Once there was an olden boy

His heart grew on thistles

and faint grass

He followed the North Star

like moss

in the duplicated garden.

He told of journeys

in the heart of wind

and memorabilia

of small disasters…

 

Sparks of thysen

light my waterways

like glowworms

paths of fairies.

In dreams your glint

is stumped

bedeviled

by pink trees and cardboard flowers.

 

This is not your duplicated garden

it is my cardboard dominion.

There are rooms

For every room there is a wish

to grant.

The stars room gives

a Tomorrow

that you can touch.

The moon room gives

a Yesterday

no longer under

wraps and clothes

of Spring.

 

I am a crumpled picture

in a secret drawer

barred behind the sunset

creasing more

each dawn…

 

My picture captures

the beyond

of blossoms

and shy rains

of dew…

 

I am mine

continuously drawing light

on shady souls

smiling

forlorn

and glorious

In my stargiving…


“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

Like a Storm – Sarah Doughty

 

“And I wanted to believe in fate —

I wanted to believe in us.”

 

You said there was no such thing as beginnings and endings. Nothing came into existence or disappeared like a puff of smoke. Matter changed shape, becoming something new — never beginning, never ending. Always changing and evolving. Like ice to water. Water into vapor. Vapor into rain. You said the same thing about us. You and I didn’t become we. Somehow, we always were. I thought it was romantic. That you could think fate brought us together.

And I wanted to believe in fate — I wanted to believe in us. I did. But then everything changed. Just like you said. How could we have been destined — as if we were always one — if we could be pulled apart so soon? Was it some cosmic lesson we both needed to learn? Or was it just you? Playing me for a fool. We were like a storm, you and I. Blowing in from the sea and ravaging the coastline before fizzling out into nothing. It may still be an evolution of change, but if that’s not a beginning and ending, then I don’t know what is.

 

[Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Goodreads, or both.]