I had a bath Slave

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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.


Beginnings – Lois E. Linkins

My piece on FVR for January’s theme, ‘Beginnings’



A curling yellow effervescence from whose expulsion
I could swing; sweet, bitter rope.

Filmy wet space, early home space
Of the golden moon, cracked on enamel edge

A grassy thud. Crimson skin
Allays the hungry weakling months like baby birds.

Quiet night for this solipsist
And that new symphony, no-one hears but me.

Broken acid membrane shoots its
Shot of fruit, sticky fingers and nails clogged with white.

Flicked bristles on white, baby cotton
Like Pollock’s blood.

Somnolence beckons, but that silver rogue
Creeps along the wires of time

Film, crisp as glue
Crackles like mid-morning snowflake.

All these things placed. In savoury readiness,
For a transformative play; cloves, orange, brown sugar.

That sumptuous squeak, that strain; the spoon’s
Eager lip dips the scarlet jellied head.

And the recantation, a new blink. Some freedom,
Still so alien, distant foibles await their unwrap,

So it knells. A fresh breath, a pink…

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Hail the Empty Page-Lois E. Linkens

A post from New Year’s Eve on Sudden Denouement:

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Hail the empty page; like an empty sky
It itched for birds. It ached for clouds,
Pined the cooling rain and wept for kites.
‘Twas a simple duty upon my maiden look,
To do as God; orchestrate the days and nights.
I might pull strands from blank, bald faces
Like wires through a net. And, behold this maddening thought –
I might love them, though I made their lives
In my own object. No matter. A golden child, and her floral friend –
I regret beyond my pen you’ll ne’er extend.
‘Tis responsibility more wild than parenthood.
See, this pitied child at yonder gate?
Her sorrow, wretched writer, did thee wickedly create.
One might a palace build, a place construct
Of Uncurbed Peace and Perfect Choice, easy plucked
From heaven, with fruits like jewels and space
For All. Would that be a sweet, kind thing?
Aye. But what use is…

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Perpetual night rings quiet ‘bout mine lot.

A temp’rate, welcome place does make my cot.

I saw this turbid darkness once before;

An endless sky, a black and boundless shore.

My fleshy cavern yields the softest pile –

Pillowed walls do my new-formed soul beguile,

In perfect warmth. No time frame makes its cage,

Of war and Fortune. She’s no wiles to wage,

Time’s rouge seductress keeps her distance neat,

For pink enough’s my pulsed and poignant seat.

Her daily bread mine daily is; her breath

Does like a cradle hold me fast from Death.

My every hour does throb with some far drum.

(A solemn steady tread t’wards hope to come.)

This fleshy hammock most is very still,

Yet ofttimes comes a blink of dizz’ing thrill –

I feel no ground, yet soft beneath me shifts

Like mountains quake, some sense of falls and lifts.

This muscly cot, I seldom spare, still dost

Grow slim and snug. She minds it not, I trust

When from the precious space below yields quick

A timid, but sure certain, infant’s kick.

(I cannot tell if ‘twas a dream of kind,

But one bright figure stays my simple mind.

‘Twas with a silvery voice and words of cheer –

‘Good news,’ he spoke, ‘doth present cometh here.’)

There cometh pressing shapes I cannot see,

But carry love and patience through to me.

Beyond this quiet realm, I chance to hear

The tremb’ling notes that drip with fragrant fear –

I cannot stand! I cannot swim and take

This distant pain. T’will soon my poor heart break.

Some days lie long and stagnant. Still, I feel

A certain stirring wakes, in flesh concealed.

And now, some outward thing has whirled a storm!

No more the stillness of my early form.

My cot expands, my waking restless grows,

As th’unseen path t’wards some place craggy goes.

There is no room. My little space, my source

Has no more room for whate’er be mine course.

No room – my God! Can this my purpose be?

P’raps this cramped place is not the end of me.

What noises crow? What sounds of life are these

That brawl and bleat, and of outside, do tease?

Here it comes – oh, Hark! What brute force is this?

Please, wait – there is so much I’m due to miss!

And… oh. Oh, such sweet eyes of depth and light

Do meet me, on this my first Earthly night.