Plunged into sudden blackness. Electricity gone. Heart pounded and pumped with panic until you’d appear. Your shake was the rattle of a matchbox. Us, soothed by the first spark of your strike and the whispery hiss of ignition. Shhh it’s ok. You flitted from room to room, impervious to the darkness, a floating face illuminated …
Plumage, quill and crow step, underfoot on the rugged path on a summer’s morning walk. From the rooks’ observatory, bird’s eye view, watching. Crow’s feet, hop, hop, hop. Bird brain breeding, korrp, krack-krack-krack, cluck, klong. Incubation territory. Bird’s foot trefoil. Bare faced fancier preens. Banter, rattle and boom. Kraa-kraa. Pin feathers …
This Place by Hugh A Tague Dust of change fell upon a carpet of rubble As their big guns pounded her to the street. It stood proud, this place, amidst the trouble, Its ruins now piled deep beneath my feet. The smell of gunpowder hangs in the air, Devoured by fire, and opened …
The bench had never looked quite as empty as it did today. The night’s falling snow had paid little care to the silent memories which rested just underneath its crystal ice. So many vibrant loves and cares played out over so many years and many seasons, and yet on this cold November morning, they seemed so distant, so …
These words that I Loutishly Feed are camouflaged In an elusive trap The course in strategy Isn’t revealed in battlefields dwellings To its original origins, composed from a plan And unleashed to a foothold into a Eventual step onto the front-lines payouts’ expendable because deaths doses favored in the embodiment of hero’s static cerebro energy …
Did you see that house that they cut into four? Like the way they built us up till we divided. The way you moved through me, like hot steel through softened cement. Do you remember that night when we danced? Like a dance with a building that was never quite home, but it creaked as …
Every morning I cross that spectacle of craft, never basking in its stoic structure, its sloped back an otter’s, stretching over water. The plaque that probably states the year of its completion, its dedication. But in my hurry I’ve never read the scribed tribute always needing to be here or there never looking back. Sometimes …