Togetherness is all there is;
Together glows like morning’s sacred possibility.
non
Cruel neon man. How you sit,
A lighthouse crooning, a red crow
With thbthb feather
On a waving post. Stretch away
Stretcher,
‘A dropping stomach, sir, a stomach that’s dropped.’
disappoint
I will forget the bitterness of you.
The cold, whistling space
And leave my think trace.
Poetic authority.. pearl poet bubble
Burst here, oxygen peace oxygen
In bedroom comfort, bedroom kind.
Tuck your private mind
The clouds look kind, but choke.
The Good girl
The Good girl sung
And prayed in church
On every Sunday morn.
She closed her eyes
And thanked the Lord
For letting Christ be born.
And all was well
From week to week.
Her heart was full and calm.
That was, until,
The New girl came
And offered Good her palm.
Her eyes were clear,
Her cheeks were soft.
Her lips were red as blood.
The Good girl cursed
Her wicked heart
For falling fast in love.
From then, the church
Was ne’er the same.
It welcomed her no more.
The walls dripped black
And with a smack
They thrust her from its door.
Dunadd – Lois E. Linkens
My latest piece ‘Dunadd’ on FVR, written after a trip to Scotland:
The cold wind slaps across my cheek, slaps hard.
We are at the crow’s place, the sooty fibres
Of his black-night wings are glossed with rain,
And we see it. We are Gods, beholding
The green scraps of life with scorn and reverence,
For ‘tis one’s duty to maintain the keep.
You hold me; your black hair shudders frantic
With the breeze, like iron filings bristling
In the magnet’s approach. But you are gleeful,
You have all you need. The wind and the salt air,
The thought of eagles crouching not so far,
You are hope; I have seen the eagles atop the pines.
Flighty sort, haughty, proud – with not a thought
Beyond the stomach’s growl, the rustling bush,
The sweet red gore behind the fur, the scale.
But you – you with your coffee eyes, gentle
Hands cup my freckled skin – you have mind, and space.
The…
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Noise
The poet’s voice
Made too much noise
Within the wooded space.
They wrote in mind
Of trees and kind
And broke the peace of the place.
Green Comfort
The green comfort, long deserted me,
Shrivelled ditch-ward. No young tree
Grows: I am old, squeezing out of time
And mud and heart.
I have played my part,
Shared my skin,
Pressed myself within. My dear adult bird,
The wand’ring mind,
Is never heard, and left behind.
Time – Lois E. Linkens
My piece ‘Time’ on FVR:
Tonight’s the night! And my wicked finger whistled
On it’s way out.
Moody old pillow-head grovels, snivels, wriggles;
Only a year heaven knows that’s no proper. Youth-fools. Gingerly,
Right Time peeks above the wafting fray. We’ve been pine-tree lovers, grinned at
Rings for others.
Oh, how frail my heart; she
Would to take the gentle hand, curled like a shell, of her who stayed the wait.
Lois E. Linkens
Queenie- Lois Linkens
My piece ‘Queenie’ on SD:
White slip of night at the shore,
And the fox-eyed pebbles wink at
The cold pearl moon. The freshwater stream,
Like silver silk
Heralds the flush of the waves, the bubbling spits
Of the shallows, stones like eyes, stones like saucers,
Like griddle cakes. There comes a woman,
Without a coat, silver-wax shoulders studded
With gooseflesh. She walks,
Toward the black water and the night-worms
Hear her singing, overhead her socked feet damp
And bottoms gritty,
A soft knitted invasion.
There is a country, far beyond the stars
Her red hat
Like a herring on a line sways with her
Narrow peg shoulders
And the sea
Is tar on her woollen toes.
Lois is a poet and student from England. She is studying the literature of the Romantics and hopes their values and innovations will filter through into her own work. She is working on longer projects at present…
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Treesap – Lois E. Linkens
My piece ‘Treesap’ on FVR today:
‘A measure of Bailey’s,’ and the blue-haired
Barmaid smiles, as steam rushes from the coffee
Machine. Eyes stare back, small glasses squared
And neck fluffed under the swirled bun, sticky
Like a grey Danish, left from clipping dry
On evenings with the clippers and beauty
Compact in the bathroom mirror; dried cacti
On the windowsill. At that bar, I’ll see
Your soul rising with the steam. Sweet and high,
And the ring it left like an eclipse would
Not come off, though I baking-soda-tried.
We stopped scrubbing and drank snowballs outside
In the bright, green garden full of driftwood.
With amber necks like maple tears, we sigh.
Lois E. Linkens
