I Had An Image-Lois Linkens

my latest piece on Sudden Denouement.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

unnamed.jpgAnd then it was a misted eye, a thought.

A passing glimpse, a shadowed hall upon

A shadowed hill. I would my peace were brought

In Years, but I am just as restless further on.

I have purple skin for those Knocks that came

As birds do knock. Yellow beaks and plumage bright –

Woe betide my jealous heart, for shame!

I would to get away for just one night.

I look towards the Clouds and sink inside –

There is a firmer future at their feet

Than this curled life that joys to send me weak.

Where is this hallowed Hope of which they speak?

I would its lips would kiss me as its Bride –

Its hands would lift me to that image sweet.


[ Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant…

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A Walk on Good Friday-Lois Linkens

my latest piece on sudden denouement.. it’s been a while!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

The path’s wet with rain and trodden blossom.

Crushed petals in hot hot pink looked funny

In the downpour. A box of plums, deep red

Were left on a stranger’s garden wall. Odd,

I thought were they forgotten fruit or just

A simple spring gift for the passer-by.

They had not gone bad yet. Either was fine

For a Good Friday walk in the grey rain.

I pondered to take them. But I feared it,

The trembling lip of a child, whose favourite

Plum tart, fresh pastry lined with marzipan

And segments like jewels in their almond bed

Could not be. I could not steal the joy

Those purple fruits would surely soon deploy.

[ Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a…

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I haven’t posted in a good while for me – there is good reason. I am currently working on both a novel and my university dissertation so I am very busy. I will be back with some poetry soon. In the next few months back properly. Thanks for everything

written on March fourth

there is no other peace quite like this—

ne’er did i know a calm of such great claim.

claim to me, without force or twist of will—

I cannot place, I do not know its name.

I did not knock or ask or seek to find,

no hinge did creak beyond my finger’s touch.

my lips were resolutely stopped of praise,

I was not on the lookout for this much.

the sculpted world does sit around me now.

a masterpiece knows it’s faults— it points them

out, and gives us tools to sweetly right them.

an artist pokes to deeper thoughts allow.

such art is given us with which to play—

i know of One who does not go away.

musings after i spilled my drink

Image result for stained glass windows in church painting

sticky bubbles dried on the spoon, it was past midday. coffee was cold, still sweet. sugar in a glass jar and a dark dark wooden table, rich. i thought of squirrels and nests and felt sorry.
i saw bendy black banisters and wire lamplights – a stack of highchairs and three girls in round glasses.. spectacled beauty. my insides jumped and milk mixed sorely with acid.
he has long long hair – maybe he is lightning. i should have stayed, oh i should have stayed but is not one’s own company the best to enjoy while one is still bearable?
ONE! TWO! THREE!
three gongs on some hidden chime. a glinting silver cup rises and falls, bread is broken. it melts in my mouth like snow, the dark red wine is strong and bitter. i looked to the windows as i walked to my seat.
here is my golden pen. it is not enough no never enough not beautiful enough for mother’s day – nothing nothing is! i want to give her the world and everything in it.

 

i woke in good time of that cursed bell- Lois E. Linkens

i wrote a sonnet….. here it is on SD

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

i woke in good time of that cursed bell
that juts across the path of shimmered stone
and wrenches minds from warm sleep’s gentle swell. 
i woke amid the covers quite alone—
my love was gone. but ne’er to keep away,
i rest in calm assurance of this truth. 
he dozes miles north and hours too, 
for now i tumble from his palace roof
atop his hillock green. An ample hue
to paint pastoral dreams that sooth and calm,
but oh! i would i’d rest upon his arm
and let that cruel ring of loud alarm
awake us two, from easy peace or fright
and leave the tempest raging to the night.

Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her…

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In Her Element: Lois E. Linkens & Kindra M. Austin

possible my favourite collaboration i’ve done to date. ‘in her element’ up on Whisper and the Roar…

Whisper and the Roar

6cfa224af81ae3ef09e81f5cab137607.jpg
(Kindra)
Stay the blade lodged in my back—
let the tissue heal and seal the
covenant.  
I am Woman,
unrecumbent,
and daggers only steel my skin.
 
(Lois)
the waters struck the cliff
and there i was,
chalked upon its rocky face.
sharp heavy things
chipped like woodpeckers, struck
their pointed heads against my crags,
but still i stood.
i wriggled my toes in the earth’s red core;
rough skin and fire
below the sky.
 
(Kindra)
Scale me, daring mountain climber,
with your fancy
seismograph—
go on, pretend the spirit of Woman is
something actually
measurable.
Taste my magma, and feel my resolve.    
  
(Lois)
my dust falls in clouds
in salt air.
the knock of you rings empty
across this blue horizon,
and still, i have stood.
 
(Kindra)
Stand in shadow of my marble,
and revere my perseverance—
I am monumental testament
of…

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red kites in hayes

beige-headed cloud bird, i watch from the warm

as great circles crooning o’er chimney and slat

you glow in brown crimson ‘gainst light of morn.

wise eyes scour like ice, for vole, bird or rat.

o’er treetops thou drift in mighty estate,

while blackbirds and seagulls claw at thy wing.

grey snow clouds desperate to unload cold weight

are but wet, windy backdrops for what thy bring.

i’m at the window. i’m waiting still,

hot fingers steaming — hips leant on the sill.

i’ll watch as you dive through eight o’clock’s sky

yet inward thank that my food’s not so high.

red kite in thy splendour, teach me of death —

teach me the true treasure of each full breath.

written in the n.p.g.

a rich gold scarf does bind his forehead. jaw
of divine carving, he will gaze until
we all have crumbled into dust and bone.
he holds the midpoint, some curator’s will
to herald hedonistic man’s delight
has kept him cardinally on this wall.
i wonder would we know his face at all,
had desperate hearts been satisfied and right.
behind me, on the left is one who gave
much deeper praise to that which selfish man
took and took and took because ‘we just can’;
he is peasant poetry, calm and grave.
nature’s deft spokesman, soft as summer’s breeze
in orange fields immortal with sweet ease.