Tracks

Train is-a-coming, oh, yeah! On tracks snaking up the mountains, and down into the valley renown for its emerald-green pond. The journey is like a game of snakes and ladders. The journey is as intricate as a six-part marital, sung with seduction in mind. Oh, speedy seduction of scenery, melting by in shades of pink and amber earth. Icing like icicles drippingodripping mountains bearded in snow. The engine pulses and steams rivets of tears, which frost the passenger windows. The light is a beacon in the dark, a floodlit consciousness where once you could only see the whites of his eyes. Christmas paper lanterns sway from the ceiling in the dining car, bad the child pushes your finger into the icing of sticky marzipan. You stroke your husband's cheek, soft and silky like cat's fur. A beard is-a-coming you think with longing. You rope your hand through the crook in his suited arm, and wish he was your life raft. Sweet as cake.

The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne

On Reflection

Her sightless gaze stared at the mirror. The face of a man took shape in front of her. The reflection had a vague watery look about it, as if it was not quite real. Yet it was definitely a man’s face. A handsome face, confident and self assured. The lips disdainful, moved to a full sneer. His eyes were black with contempt, and she felt the fear. Then something moved.
The whole face turned into disbelief and shocked surprise. The smooth forehead was flawed. The flaw a perfect circle. The circle grew in size and colour right in the centre. She was transfixed by the symmetry. The back of his head exploded in an arc of grey and red mist as he went down. He had been a big man, that had been part of his problem, and now in slow motion he spread his length upon the pavement. He fell like an old factory chimney, and lay unmoving upon the ground. She knelt beside him shaking, she could feel herself shaking. Then feet arriving, many feet came from nowhere. Always feet, she never looked above the feet. Hands gently lifted her away, but still her eyes remained on his grey face, taking in the crimson puddle, then again the feet. More and more feet. The further she backed away, the more she melted into the gathering crowd. Then he was out of sight and she was walking.
She knew the mirror had been there, but all the time she stared the events continued to unfold in a perpetual loop. How long had she been there?
Now his face was back just as before. This time she was aware that another face, that of a woman, was superimposed onto the sneering lips. She was aware of a desire to identify this woman. Somehow she was important. The loop continued as before with the scarlet hole central to his forehead, but the woman’s reflection intruded further and further into her consciousness. The more she tried to identify the reflection the more ‘ he’ faded into the background. Once again she reached the point where she left the feet behind and began to walk. She was aware of the walk. She remembered walking. She had walked here.
Then the woman in the mirror stared right back at her as clear as day. She was grey and drawn, even under heavy make up and her eyes were black. The black had cut a swathe through the peach foundation, skirted tight lips and was dripping off her jaw line.
The soaking wet mascara began to smart quite painfully, and to her horror she saw the face in the mirror make the connection. Once again in slow motion she watched as the woman’s reflection came to the realisation she was staring at herself.
The pain in her eyes and the release from shock galvanised her into action. The full peril of her situation hit her hard and fast.
Grabbing a handful of tissue she wiped away the errant mascara, taking the heavy peach foundation as she went. Methodically and efficiently she worked until her face was naked. She raised her eyes once more to the mirror to survey her handiwork. The vulnerable reflection eyed her back. No more black streaks, only red rimmed eyes where the chemical had been. However, in its nakedness, her skin revealed a mass of small scars and evidence of recent bruising. He had always aimed for her face. He enjoyed her pain and liked to admire his handiwork. He knew he controlled her completely and it gave him such a buzz. Always so very sure, the final surprise had been total.
The tinny voice of the tannoy crackled into life announcing the imminent arrival of the London train. Gathering up the large pile of damp tissue, she deposited it into the bin with something akin to aplomb. She opened the clasp of her handbag and placed the leather gloves on the top of the gun. She closed it firmly. In the mirror her reflection raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement of a job well done. Closing the door of the Ladies waiting room, she crossed the platform and entered the anonymity of the train.

The copyright of this post belongs to Geneva Grey

Dear Julia

"Dear Julia,

You have given me much happiness.  As I play form the gift of the music sheet for Bohemian Rhapsody you gave me I picture you choosing the pink fluffy bed socks.  I fear our association must end as my health has suffered with palpitations since you gave news of the positive pregnancy test.  The caster oil has been no help, and I fear I will soon have need of the definite place in the church crypt.

I have the key to the castle on the isolated Scottish island you gave me, and I will retreat there with the map and phial of dirty water you inexplicably provided for such an occasion.  Chairman Mao's little red book goes with me, as do enduring memories of our frolics in the apple pie bed.

I remain your devoted Reverend Green."

The copyright of this post belongs to Jaine Currier

Train is A' Comin'

'Train is a coming, oh yeah'
They sang as the cakes baked in the sun.
The hot iron tracks burnt their bottoms
But who cared?
It was time for a celebration.
Mercy was going. On her way.

Better get your ticket, Mercy, oh yeah
Me, Faith, Honesty and Joy have had enough.
Enough of hands folded on knees begging and praying
Who needs a Being to act as Judge?

Devils on the train, oh yeah
Escape that fire in hell, Oh Mercy!
Your magical transformative days are over.
There is no hope of escape, Mercy.
A nightmare rolls towards you
Couched as dreaded reality.

Train is in the tunnel, oh yeah
Bliss it will be when we escape Mercy.
The light searches for her.
Bliss comes our way.
Oh mercy me, how sweet it is,
Revenge and betrayal are true and due.
Bite the hot cake, feel it sear your mouth.

Come Faith, Honesty and Joy.
Come with me.
This insanity is over.
Chuff, chuff, choo, choo
Goodbye Mercy
Coming in the station Oh Yeah!
Taste that cake.

The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack

The Husband

The husband submerged his square, strong hands in the blue light of the cosmos. Stars winked like burnished silver lockers cavorting out of his reach. It was his fault that the days had drawn in and darkness reigned. Nowadays she stayed indoors wrapped in a cloak of memories. Only the cat occasionally courted her when he stirred his ginger limbs from the rag rug hearth where he lay curled. Her heart was a huge, cavernous building strewn with faded poppies. The war was over and emptiness remained. Deep in the woods the hatchet lay buried. Buzzards flew overhead chasing crows downwards. 'Honey,' he murmured, 'honey?' But his words were no longer drops of golden sweetness dredged from her pure teenage dreams but hollow with overuse. She hummed a tune from eons ago, 'little willie, willie won't come home.'
His square strong hands had shod her in a shoddy way. The genie was out of the bottle and there was no going back. She clicked her fingers for her first wish longing to feel life's warmth infiltrate her days.

The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack

Remembrance

Whispering white clouds floated across a blue sky, oblivious to this auspicious day of history piling itself into the air. Sons of God, all, gathered in a trench filled with mud and mice and men, depleted of energy and purpose.
One task. Carry out orders. The wire has been cut.
Six rungs to go over the top in a puerile attempt to claim a bit of bloodied mud. One job to do before they died. And they knew they were to die; hadn't they all been home on leave to say their goodbyes?
Six rungs. Fix bayonets. Focus.

Whispering white clouds scud across the horizon behind lines of white crosses, standing proud. 'Remember the dead' they say. Remember the fallen. Remember the sacrifice.
Are they at peace?
Wind blows into her face and stops the tears from sliding down to wet her collar.
My beloved.
So many beloved fathers, sons, brothers. All gone. Only the lucky few ones found a coffin at all. The wind will always blow across this open space of remembrance. There will be no quiet at all for those at peace. Something rustles unseen in the tall grass. is it a mouse or a memory?

Whispering white clouds hover above in a holographic sky. Free Earth is but a dream gone by. We escaped from the old wars, the Great war, into galactic ones.
Nothing ever changes however hard the wind blows. Men will always fight one another.
There is only one escape left.
The hosepipe will do its part attached to the belching exhaust.
I am exhausted!... will they understand the irony?
I will shut the door now.

The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan

Four posts from Istanbul

The Persian carpet

You leave your unique pattern on my heart

Woven through with intricate care

Threads of gold, sienna and cerulean

Repeating your consistency.

Outside stark winter marks out its lines with geometric precision.

Ice cobalt and umber.

Bleakness has its own appeal

Still, unfettered loneliness

Tranquil moors flowing to the horizon

Flattened with usage, worn thin in parts.

You touch the burnished lamp on your return

Diffused light spreads. Rose ochre hues. Warm and familiar ease

The missing piece revealed.

 

Kybele Roof Terrace.

A variation on ‘Lewis’

 Should we care what the model of the car was? What was hidden in the glove box?

It could be many things; a hummingbird waiting to be set free, a rusty Victorian key, a lotus blossom.

I haven’t a hope of understanding the situation.  Is the murder an open and shut case?

It is not straightforward. Someone trying to equal the division of wealth?

Back to the quest.

I wonder what was in the boot.  It could be a micro light, my turquoise suitcase, or our other car? (It’s a big boot). The remote hides its locking system and I can’t work out which button to press to open the boot. The darkness of the boot hides the pride of pain.

I wish I had less of a desire for order and neat solution. I wish I didn’t have to give the ending and the answer. What bleak spec is in my eye?  My eyelids close on the openness of anguish

I reopen my eyes and decide to forget about opening the boot.. I see a pristine turquoise padlock and turn the tiny key. The lock springs open. I’ll leave it dangling on the gate as a memento.

I’ll give up trying to solve this pointless mystery.  I break the passenger window with a rock; I break into the glove box with a chisel and release the hummingbird.  It flitters across the valley like a shiny thread of fizzing joy.

  

Journey

Shall we make a plan? No, not today. I have the desire to reach the zenith on the charabanc covered in the rose perfume of the East.

Shall we go straight? No not today. I want to wander through decrepit alleyways strewn with decadence and festooned with ivy.

The path forks. Shall we choose which one to take?  No, not today.  Let’s toss a coin into the fountain.

Shall we take the iron road? A base metal but practical. The charabanc would have argument with this path. Let’s follow the yellow brick road that winds round and round.

Shall we pass the pool? The reflections show harems strewn with concubines languishing on lace cushions. Overflowing with fruitfulness.

Prim and proper Alice looking through the glass is confused. The reflections make her woozy. She prefers the portrait of Arnolfini and his wife constrained endlessly within their mirror.

On return I look in the my oval mirror which reflects the sixty four lamps suspended above the bed. Travelling forward with repetition and  illumination.

 

Two Haiku
 

Rose Opal Harem

Ivy Alley

Splintered winsomeness

rose opal veil

cushioned winsomeness

parakeet in alley

The copyright of these posts belongs to Rachel Morrell