Monday, 30 November 2015

O Krish

     "This is me in my short white dress". said The Lord Krish as he sat in the fruit-dirt. Long lengths of cloth hung from trees in red and gold like the sun, He blessed the kissed-crowd in their lace hems torn like hedge-rows. They gave him food and loops of white sweet knots for his kind neck. The wet waves in the pond knew he was a great man. His scent was hot spice. He could coil in their dreams like a King snake. He could cut the moon like a sharp knife and toss out the stars as though they were kites. He held light in his hands. Their eyes stung with his love. The black horse and dog bowed before him. The long and the short of it was they knew he would love them like a deep-knit stream; for a long time; for all time. One day he went off. Alone. The kind tree where he had been died. No one could speak. Their jaws ached. Their jaws were shut, tied in grief.

The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne

Wednesday, 25 November 2015

And Still

With only skin to protect us, run deep in harm's way.
Stone has no breath,
Arms wide open, heart wide shut.
Above your still still waters
His veins thrill
With the skin you were born into.
Rising blood,
Arms wide open, heart wide
Wide above
With only your skin to protect us
Then above your breath,
Above your skin
Something in harm's way
Deep, open, still.

The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele


His veins thrill with rising blood, arms wide open, heart wide shut. Still waters run deep in harms way, stone has no breath with only skin to protect us; the skin you were born into. Then above your something waters thrill with rising blood - the harm you were born into. With only your heart, your breath to protect us. Still, blood rises above your open heart. In water’s way, only skin to protect us. Arms wide shut, heart wide open, something to protect us above your thrill veins breath. Still veins wide shut.

 The copyright of this post belongs to Ellen MacCree

Friday, 20 November 2015

The Walk

     Share this meandering alleyway with me, where the crow watches from a carved gate with his black eyes. I did not know he had russet feathers beneath his coal-black wings, just as I did not know there were flecks of topaz in your down-cast eyes. Take my hand and lead me in your imagination. On this uneven path of cracking concrete I still cannot bear your tears behind closed doors. Keeping it to yourself keeps me in the dark. Let's stop so you can spoon pieces of mango into my mouth like a baby bird. I open up to you waiting to be fed, to drink your breath which tastes like Jamaican rum. I am drunk on you and have to hang on for dear life. Such loads my back can carry. Such heaviness can bring you to your knees, and they are already swollen. I see the trinkets, the sweet gifts left in the gaudy shrine. The candle is lit but the wax has pooled in the plastic saucer. I stare into your face and I feel my cheeks grow hot when I see the shared laughter and the light in your eyes. I want to be in your movie but not as an extra. These gifts we give wrapped in heart-paper; my offerings on the altar of love. If only you could share.  

The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne    Kerala  Nov. 2/15