A hotel ‘side the river

With 2 for 10 cocktails

And ghosts in the walls

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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.

View original post 334 more words

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.

The Tender Lily – Lois E. Linkens

My latest piece on Whisper and The Roar:

Whisper and the Roar

lily drwing

there was a tender lily
beneath a shaded tree.
her face was pure, her roots were deep.
she blossomed endlessly.

and she was tall
as proud as any woman.

the honey bees came bumbling
to take her juices sweet.
they sucked her dry
and off would fly,
to leave her pale and weak.

but night came,
and up she stood
as proud as any woman.

the golden hours of autumn
brought dryness to the tree.
the leaves did fall and cover all
her beauty bitterly.

but wind came,
and up she stood
as proud as any woman.

the trampling boots of hate and shame,
they crushed her ‘neath their toe.
her fragile suit was broke and blue,
and hid beneath the snow.

. . .

there is a tree that stands alone
in a charming field of white.
and at its foot, there grows a shoot
of lily, green and…

View original post 1 more word

oblation – a collaboration with Eric Syrdal

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 tase of sweet water

to imbibe the knowledge of man’s long

dance with death.

and I, from my mount

stand tall agains 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.

They do not know to need;

they forget the red skies and smoke.

Each broken step is precious blood,

Our father’s deaths were writ for good.

Like barnacles

clinging to the hull of a ship

Just beneath the topaz surface

or in the oily brine dark

they know only to clutch

to the scraps of life

anything to stay bouyant

Each broken step is precious blood,

Our father’s deaths were writ for good.

I will,

take the earthen bowl

raise it to the deaf gods of a cracked

heaven

They queue at my altar

clutch and raise the hem

of my vicar’s robe

to leave blood kisses

and bits of carrion feathers

upon the mangy threads

I will, minister the salt potion

tip the dusty rim against their teeth

Let is pass through their wispy curtain

of bone husks

Broken, clinking and tangled

marionettes in the grip

of Oblivion

We ache for salt, we burn for bread.

But good men are by hardship led.

Lyrical tithe

their hearts do speak

blindy their sullen eyes will seek

A wooden grail

lying in the road

to grease their lips whilst speak their ode

But the chipped rim

of their sacred cup

will only serve to shut them up

For a bauble held

in desperate hands

can make so much much gold from dust and sand

We ache for salt, we burn for bread.

But good men are by hardship led.

And while I could

direct them safe

my purpose remains to abrade and chafe

United by thirst

they’re of no use to me

I need them at odds, abandoned and weak

We walk towards a promised land,

Soaked in milk and softest sand.

We’ve not enough tears to wet the land

and bring the grass, anew

We’ve only the memories

of a time before this

when all our dreams came true.

A deadened bruise of sky will wake

upon the morrow’s echoed dawn.

Put on your dark, your blackest things –

the sweet old earth will mourn.

Best Man-Lois Linkens

A piece of mine from a few days ago on Sudden Denouement..

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

AC4A55E2FA134267827D51E718890DE9.jpg

Pink tie

A long satin tongue.

Soft black hair,

Nutbrown shoes

And brown skin.

August sun

Is glitter

In the beer,

Like flies across a golden lake,

Bugs in amber.

The bouquet

Fell flat,

A red yellow green corpse

Of us,

And then there was nothing

But your eyes

And my crooked feet

And Bowie

Floats on coloured lights

And all I feel is you.


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, with a hope to publish poetry collections and novels in the years to come. She is a feminist, an nostalgic optimist, and a quiet voice in the shadows of Joanne Baillie and Charlotte Smith. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it…

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the little mermaid #12

Marble David pointed. ‘Swim towards the sun.

The red coral welcomes, flowers of blue and dun.

Swim to where the sea is light – then quick dive,

To this place; ’tis peaceful, calm, alive.’

And so, the gentle Mermaid dove to swim and seek

A new existence ‘neath the fleeting lens.

The current carried, swift and strong, a wat’ry whip –

And soon the fish-girl saw the deep bright dip.

Lo, before her eyes, she saw a queer sight;

Ladies! Ladies small, ladies of great height.

There was Mary, the green girl of the States.

Noseless goddesses – Venus, Aphrodite.

The golden face of Minerva, sweet with charm.

All gathered here in refuse, ‘neath the salty balm.

the little mermaid #11

‘You’d take my place, upon this wretched rock?’

Our Mermaid squirmed and gasped in grateful shock!

My dear, I was not made for love and war.

I am nothing but a Danish tourist’s whore,

The life of love was ne’er put to my mind.

I beg, you would not think yourself unkind

To take my offer in gladness and glee.

Freedom lies for you beneath the white sea.

The Mermaid flung her arms round David’s neck –

You are so dear and kind! But know this –

They do not come for you. They do not see your eyes.

I fear this life will be a black surprise.

Go, sweet girl. You’re made for sparks and love –

You belong not to our brash world above.

the little mermaid #10

They left awful footprints on our Mermaid’s heart.

As the harbour hushed that sombre eve,

Her eyes did swim with pain and loss of love.

Till from the shore, approached the tender step

Of David, Michaelangelo’s fair nude.

He placed his marble hand beneath her chin –

Sweet Mermaid, tell your friend why these sore tears

Do flood your face? Tell me of this grief within.

Oh, David! wailed the fish-girl. Who can live

In this cruel sense, all still and silent?

See, I am to be photographed and left.

This is no life, this is slow, helpless death.

My girl, said David. This is my wild request;

Perhaps I’d take your place, upon your rocky crest.