Flight

Pilot me to the edge,

to the door between either and or.

Wear tie and handkerchief,

the trilby that looks sexier on you―

with midnight in your pocket,

your shadow fixed between the arrows.

Look to the middle distance when the tide is out―

at last you see migration on the horizon.

Give me mellow, for keeps.

Show me the other side of clouds―

pull goggles over my eyes,

kisses from my quiver.

Let me be free to let go―

die that little death.

tk/June 2013

Thanks to  R.A.D. Stainforth for bringing this poem to life. 

The Promenade, 1918, Marc Chagall 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Virginia Woolf's Bedroom

It's the blue one at the end of the hall ―
cover it with poppies you bought yourself,
let pollen drop from your hair like wedding rice.

Lie on the child-like bed
under the narrow eyes of portraits.
Let your wasp eyes unhinge, draw honey.

Be made a woman here.

Slip endless stones from your pockets ―
raise the window against the rush of the river.
You prefer men to cauliflowers (and hours).

Let life stand still.



tk/June 2013

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for this excellent read.

Charleston Farmhouse Door 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Communion

The crucifix is gone―

the one I got discount,

for singing a cappella.

I quaffed enough blood,

dissolved my fill of broken body.

It served a melismatic purpose.

Chants are replaced by BBC Radio 3―

all the pizzicato that nailed fingers

cannot convey.

I learn to sight-read on my own,

toss the tasteful ornament,

the placid swaddling,

in a box of discarded syntax―

rain heavy on the roof

like applause.

tk/June 2013

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for another excellent read.  

Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? 1979 by Morris Graves 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.