I had a bath Slave

I had a bath Slave. Sweet, good-tempered Fi,
With skin as Butter in the English heat.
Her touch as feathered down; ‘tis odd my heart
Did swell than times I would my husband meet.

The still warm waters of the gild goddess
Did often cleanse me of mine wrongful blush.
Dawn’s young light would find me as I wept,
And begged and prayed these songs of love might hush.

I scratched her name on lead. Up came the breath
To meet my plea and down it went, my sin.
Her blood would spill as water does,
Clear as diamond, lifeless, dull as tin.

‘Tis better for to hear Minerva speak
Than after fruitless love to desperate seek.

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N.S.U.

Some place, joined with the stores of sun and snow,

Who tread the fragrant earth scarce long ago,

There comes a man. Ne’er was such tragic plot as this,

An autocratic theft to reminisce.

‘Tis fine! ‘Tis sweet to dwell on bygone days.

Yet one is wont to ponder; now, who pays?

Who Time becomes, whose own Self must be flung

Down cellar steps like rotten fish. I’m stung.

All bitterness — in bitter weeks enough.

Return to him whose tired soul ‘scaped the rough —

(I wonder how his hands did feel to hold.)

If I can mourn, how sharp your pain, how cold,

In those shared hearts. His days remain thereof,

‘Twere void of much, but ne’er did want for love.

things to come

good morning everyone. here I must first apologise for the lack of posts recently, after the Little Mermaid poem I found myself very busy with university work and my job. I am glad to have been able to publish a few pieces with Free Verse Revolution which I have reblogged for you all to read.

I am at a bit of a crux writing wise. I am finding myself uncomfortable with a lot of online poetry communities and pages. I will explain this at a later date but as of now, I am working to try and articulate what my problems are, and how I might fix them for myself in the future.

Currently, I am working on a project for NaNoWriMo. I am writing a children’s book, which is a first for me. It’s a challenge, but it’s a great challenge, and I’m enjoying trying something new. I have a few other pieces in the works – specifically my other short novella and a short story. I am trying to figure out what to do with them. It is scary to put something out there when you have little publishing experience except for online blogs.

I will have an Advent poem coming up throughout December which I hope some of you will tune in to follow, sort of like a poetic Advent calendar. I hope to give you some other short pieces until then, but you should know I am concentrating most of my writing power into my children’s novel.

That’s it from me as it stands. See you in Advent.

Her creamy strap was sin itself – Lois E. Linkins

my latest piece on FVR for desire month!

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

Her creamy strap was sin itself; a mark

Of woman. Bosoms hid beneath the mask

Of Cotton, next her silver cross, ‘tween bones

Like knees outspread. Who is more insulted?

She whose form betrays, or the boyish ways

Of him that make such tigress beggars of

His Kind. A pure Youth, for a separate life –

Dry lips and cold sheets, crisp as morning plastic.

You are pink. Those spots, my dear, are fine –

My God! How much more precious must you be than sheep?

Whose wool is flecked with dirt and still they graze;

Precious as bleached wool, but ne’er to drink

For Fear of Shredded Throat. You put it on

Your sweet skin and are damaged; you must not

Gasp when in your lace, it sheds.

 

---

 

Lois E. Linkens

https://loislinks.wordpress.com/

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The Lipse and Lapse of Time – Lois E. Linkins & Candice Louisa Daquin

My collaboration with Candice on FVR:

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

1

I saw beautiful men and

beautiful women. I had lucked out,

all this beauty; my heart’s a drummer

with a stick and feather. My mother held a gnarled club

and beat me gently… The man I had,

the gentle man I loved –

could I not love him full and whole? To commit

is to renounce – a pretty life, or one lit in red.

My wiring does not bleed into

our lover’s bed.

And with that purple face I took

the other’s hearts,

with special care.

The kisses that you spit on, I have bottled them

with lavender and thyme.

not the numerics against my skin

scratching their prophecy

nor length of hair

there’s no Disney moment left

we examine in our woven display

the paper-cut fold of our life story

I list in dusty light

urging you to like me, for my tempered fears at night

the…

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The Shape of Fear Does Lie Amidst Mine Air – Lois E. Linkins

My contribution to FVR’s ‘Fear’ writing theme.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

The shape of fear does lie amidst mine air,

In some cruel form true known to trick my truth.

Like a wizard moves ‘tween form and guise,

Does writhe ‘twix things that be, and things that may.

It is oft a flitt’ring kestrel o’er the trees,

Or beauty in a smile with silver hair,

A sound of heaven, wove with envied care.

It is a diamond ring on fingers else,

It is contemp’ry cheer. The lifeless face

Of churches closing doors and ripping flags

(If ‘tis not the veil, ‘tis nothing.). And next,

In the witching hour, oft an empty book

Does show itself.     

                               But darkest still does claim

Those dear full pages, ne’er to bloom with name.

---

Lois E. Linkens

https://loislinks.wordpress.com/

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Nuance of Damage – David Lohrey

An unbelievable piece from David Lohrey.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Nuance of Damage
I.
Hope is faster than light,
its speed beyond measure.
It’s alive, today, but what about
tomorrow? Easy come, easy…
I need something to build up
my courage.

One advantage is sleep, an endurance test:
a locomotive or a pillow. We learn to calculate
the commotion. Suck the straw, hang out, hit the hay.
Who’s to say? One cedes territory, one
establishes boundaries, one signs along
the dotted line. Some choose Southern exposure.

Gross indecencies stare us down. Our calm is our
rebellion. It’s the last frontier. Benumbed, confounded,
lost in space. We escape confinement like water, searching,
but what of our aversion to chaos? Our taste for the
tranquil. Must we be held in contempt for despising
aggression, our preference for the impassive?

It’s massive: jest. Or condescension. We cultivate superiority;
we celebrate death: theirs, hers, his. Inoculation. Innocence.
Quest. It’s a matter of combining ingredients…

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two forks #1

Once I met a fork in that craggy road,

And it did two bold options so present –

Two ways in which to go, with choice proceed

Across the scanty plains of life and breath.

One was easy. Simple love for concrete minds

As was solid writ, to nakedness combine

And so become a woman in the truest sense.

Like that! I’d live by Eden’s face and hence

Would bat all questions to our bodied stance.

‘Tis not my love that thou should place in doubt

But that red gate aflame pressed to keep out

Those hearts that at this dreaded fork do

Knee-ward crash. Between the road of self-denial

Or bleak solo endurance in some far exile.

A hotel ‘side the river

With 2 for 10 cocktails

And ghosts in the walls

Oblation… Lois E. Linkens and Eric Syrdal

So pleased to have been able to collab with Eric again.

My Sword and Shield....

We walk towards a
promised land,
soaked in milk and softest
sand.

hard trudge
of cracked feet, muddled in
the mire
roadside ditches
dirge laden as they walk.

chapped and broken
mouths cry out
for a taste of sweet water
to imbibe the knowledge of
man’s long
dance with death.

and I, from my mount
stand tall against the ruined
sky
a king carried above the
filthy ash that
floats

upon the fetid wind from
the west
in the last days of the sun.

Our feet are hot, the path is
still.
We bend towards the
future’s will.

Your eyes are caved and bleak.
The road is long
when the trudge follows
only cloud dreams,
pink and blue and pale
but stupid drops in a
cracked palm.

Die – leave the children,
they can whisper
to the sky and gather
stones,
suck salt fingers with
dry pink tongues like
maple.

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For B.B. (September 22)

You are icon

In a place of forbidden icons,

A light

In the place of The Light.

Pale pink in the pulpit,

‘Gainst its oaken stay.

The hallowed white neck

Solemn gifted to men of old

Does thy brave one

So proud behold.

Into this cave of men

A voice comes bright,

A voice into this old place

Of The Light.

Could we be a place beyond the walls?

Do we have it –

Are we well equipped

Like we say we are

With our metal gifts?

I think we once forgot

Of these suits –

Metal molten moves, as should we.