Le repas

The way she cleans

puts away the day

into lopsided drawers that do not shut

well even on easy days

their contents lost in shuffle and exploit

planes over head, mornful drone, a whine

of grief as they attain height

her hands chapped from slapping herself

back to life

rivets run like zippers down her nails

a light somewhere is extinquished

another turned on, sudden furnace, shadows

vanquished, she has not drunk

all day, for the trembling in her hands

betrays the wait.

Dusk smears sky, oranges hang like

tired bosoms pressed in a woman’s dress

amidst plump leaves, blue-black birds

caw their hunger into the cavernous pitch, cats

with arched tails, disappear potently, eternally

her ankles swell with want, her thyroid

a box of treasure, alight with waiting in chocolate dusk

she dozes in her reverie, business put away

the calm of darkening, a hot bath scalding

dry air with its promise, oils filling her nostrils

pungent and wistful, infusion of sorrow

she remembers when

they lay together without fault

or breakage

the outline of their union

a mandala, with complicated lines leading back to circles

drawn in henna, indigo, cheap car paint, permanent in bare footed sprint

poured into a tattoo gun in the wild hinterlands of Canada

stabbed in little sticcatto for her eternal, sea sick

pleasure.

She lay then, thinking of

burning up

like fireworks

set alight to bloom and bloom till dry of pollen

in empty skies void of furtherment

she wanted to melt

the snow as she walked back

alone and hurting, wounded by her own loathing

a cigarette in her mouth

pressed against clenched, chipped teeth

and you? You were far off like winking lights in sea storm

and you were so far then… gone
without being gone

As is so much of life. Waiting. Closing curtains. Wrapping away disappointed hours

to bed, to claim, to screaming beneath wedged pillows

till the thankless clock in the downstairs anteroom chimes not

and without putting our heads in the oven even once

we are done
Done
Done.

Not written down in history

The lonely heart

of a girl

who liked her own

kind

is not written down in history

there are few

stories of this

quiet, often eclipsed, furtive, secret

kind of longing

less even spoke aloud or transcribed

for what could be said? Admitted?

Instead, there are, no doubt

trees growing exceptionally redolent

nourished with the grieving, private hearts

of girls throughout history

who buried their flesh

beneath tender roots of a sapling

when it became abundantly clear

their tongues served them no purpose

in speaking of a love

no-one wanted.

These girls … I wonder

about them, sometimes as I tramp

red cheeked and furious

up hill side, when sitting still and

desiring felt like cold bars of a jail cell

seeing above me the wielding kite and her

long expanse, mocking almost with her freedom

for fierce she is, unable to

be anything but predator

time lapses into a series of vignettes

childhood (unknowing/confused) adolescence (odd/ill-fitting)

youth (empty bed/scolded faces of young men who do not understand

why no matter what they do, they endear

not)

older (disappointment/scrolled dating sites, dark bars with groping

strangers, you wouldn’t share a car ride with)

a wish always

for the girl over the moors

her long black hair tumbling like a question mark

the iridescence of her eyes, startling, bold

quit of falseness, a truth enveloping us both

without need of pretense, shyness left in fog

to hold the hand of someone who understands

and wishes to pull you through

where magic still resides in ellipsis and mist.

They do not invite single women of a certain age

to celebrate. When everyone would feel

uneasy, no children to talk about

flourishing career to brag of, she is not anything more than

everything to one person, outside that

sphere, she feels lost, disjointed, unable to fit closely

the pieces of irregularity, between her own wishes

and that of everyone else. They stare at her

over coffee cups, watching as if she were

a different species, something odd and inexplicable

cut at irregular angles, spilling out of bondage

saffron infused thoughts, plastered to her wet head

like a seal exploring depths, her stockings uneven

ragged with snares, mimicking internal

conflict, why she couldn’t pose for the camera

lips pursed in obliging, skirt wrinkle free,

hands hidden beneath cardigan, their

eternal fidget repressed with the incalculable

strength of effort it takes women to remind silent

say nothing, speak not with their roaming eyes

the magnificence of their private entreaty.

Oh to reveal, peal off layers, ransack propriety

and launch, full mast, happy crew, into the ocean

where loving was loving anyone, invited equally

to christenings, thanksgiving, birthday’s

not whispered about; behind fans, fingers, computer

screens, the lascivious imagination of mild mannered

disgust, spread liberally on morning toast.

“What do they DO?” (behind closed doors)

“was she like THAT with you?” (you should be so lucky)

“are they man-haters?” (only if you join in the cacophony)

“her mother must be so disappointed” (eternally).

I’m not disappointed

with you, us, swimming upstream, lily pads, green light

breaking up mosaic thought

bring it on

bring it on

we urge in our confident hour, no longer strange in shadow

by fire, by tokens in dark, wagging their tongues

and then, weary, tired of the fight, we stop

holding hands in public, the glare, a sunburn on

our fragile necks we stay modest, interior

house plants straining for sufficient light

when they don’t invite us, when I remain

alone waiting for you, weeks upon weeks

when stigma is a brand without physical body

it stings as deep, stays as long, heals too slow

it is hard to imagine the words ‘equality’

leaving our lips, and joining the world

in red shoes and jaunty hat, tipped merrily

to the left-hand side, running for a bus

knowing you’ll just make it

if the ground isn’t slippery

if you don’t fall before you’ve got

a firm hold.

It can kill

Almost sun up

the tinder box within my chest

is scratched free of ignition

I have nothing left to light

against encroaching darkness

for so long, it was only you

who kept me burning, fed the diminished

flame within

now, cold weather comes hunchbacked

like a visiting relation who has

no regard,

streets are emptied, as ducklings for feasting are

short-lived in their joy, for we live in a climate

spoilt with her bounty

the people proclaim Winter their enemy

hiding inside, till blessed sun returns

to bake streets into their usual direct lines.

I have always loved the cold

for it is somber, serious, it does not apologize

for not laughing or smiling toothily for a photo

the cold is an adult, a survivor

and my warmth is now swept out

into the street to nourish next years

growth.

You have left me ransacked, weighed with grief

or rather, I permitted it

with my need to divest you with

my self keeping

it was you see, a way to continue

waking up in the morning

brushing hair, scrubbing feet

clean of their midnight chase into darkness

where if I stayed long enough

I might find no way out.

I used instead, the succor of your regard

for me, a diminished thing in a shiny coat

of false expectation, as hibiscus bloom

just before frost, as if daring it to

kill

knowing, one day, the flint

would no longer strike alight

the flame no more catch

and we’d be without fire, without warmth

without familiarity or loyalty.

As those who feel and then feel nothing

ransacked void with wilted affection

the chill of their galloping regard

worse than any Winter storm

for knowing your hater is surely

a greater pain than strangers who harm

just for the merriment of it.

I know you. I see the emptiness in your eyes

these years have rinsed out slowly like a series

of rogued pinches and double-exposures

I understand, too well, just as

I see my own senseless defeat

lain on unflinching wet ground, not moving

for the cold has washed over and she is

frozen in her private grimace.

Some of us can carry on

without the light of another

I have long existed without harmony

safety, even sanity, but I cannot lose, no

I cannot bear to, the surround of you.

If it comes then, you will find me

a memory in a long story, a footnote to something

larger than us all, lost in yellowed paper and indistinct

photos of past, growing longer with each yawn

and outside of us, that tree will still stand

in 200 years, we will have children born and

die here on this land, where the dead are

forgotten to we who roamed once, through the ravages of

time and her pitiless relinquishment of mercy.

It is the way, of mortality, even love may be mortal

in how she closes up sacrosanct and inviolable like a flower

denied light

refusing to bloom again. You say

nothing because your mouth is

filled with ashen excuses, and moving on and

what you’ll do next; it is a tempest, a fever

beneath your skin, lending you the fugue-state to

live again, for you are from your mercurial ancestors

a kind of people who always find ways to

endure, as if doing so, will make you more

memorable.

I then, I am not like you, nor ever have

possessed, the penchant for survival you tout, it doesn’t

matter much, we are all going to be

soot and lost words before long

the race, the belief we matter, is just

grime on our sleeves as we pass

through. I have seen a world

without me, as I have witnessed a life without

you, they are all echoes of each other

betraying the faith I had never quite built

knowing you would leave

observing in your eyes before you were aware

the emptiness of regard, how softly we skim

life’s abundant surface, like we hardly land

at all. At times it does not feel like it can

be real, this ache, this movement toward

self-destruction, surely this is not how it ends

and yet, years become decades and still

we find ourselves, curled into a ball, waiting

out the cold, a frigid breeze coming in

beneath the door, reminding us, no matter

how much we may like the Winter

it can surely kill.

Two opposite ends of the same breakage

I a child

asked her, an adult

what does it take? To be merciful?

How much effort? Will it hurt much? Why

doesn’t the whole world

try?

And she, an adult

fiddling with her rings, two on each finger,

because she had run out of places

to exhibit her finery, her sophistication,

she, thought of where she would go

when she left our run-down, poky house

and did not return for supper

and what she would do

when she wasn’t weighed down

with runny nosed children and yellowed aprons.

She, who has the mind of three bright men

and a heart that did not really hold space

for people who could not spell, or those who were

slow, ones who did not impress, their light not bright

but stuck in amber, she said naught,

for she liked fine things

over much

and that did not include

wellington boots and children’s well played with toys

dragged through muddy pathway, leading to small houses

where there is life, oh laughing, gainful life, but raw with

the knuckles of everyday, up to their elbows in greese

and the machinations of surviving.

I, a child

asked her, an adult

what does it take? To be merciful?

watching the baby bird, turn to bone and feather

beneath the great conker tree, its crimson roots

like great yawns beneath moss, reaching through

heavy clouds with the hands of imploring worship

and life

so harsh and unwilling, to include ‘fairness’

would steal away humanities belief in kind deeds with its

brutal parsing

which is why , my grandmother, sitting on our stoop, paring apples,

with a sharp knife inherited from her father

told me once

(and she could never spell, for she left

school early to work in poorly paid factories

only once managing to get through

The Communist Manifesto).

Child, we must be good, we must be kind.

For nothing else knows how to be, they simply

act upon their instinct to survive. Like

the lambing season, when a new lamb is

born and the mother dies, we turn our eyes

heavenward but there is no tenderness, only

the brutal knot of nature, felling her herd

till balance is restored. Our human hearts

with our aching over suffering, fit poorly

with the callous hand of nature, she must

cull with her sythe irrespective of who deservse,

there is no mercy as we know it, in this

whittling of life. Only those who survive

and those who do not, dying in bleached

bones by the thoroughfare of our journey.

I thought then of you, with your

fine clothes and your well trained mind

and empty rooms filled with piano playing ghosts

how you were

much like the nature I saw around me

beautiful, wild, out for your own gain,

surviving at any cost

and I

the strange flux of humanity and terror

seeking to be merciful

among the debris of our eternal battle

with light and dark.

I knew then, why you despised me

why I loved you

it is like the fable of the scorpion and the frog

it is your nature

to sink deep into the foaming earth

showing only your glacial tip

as it is mine

to seek mercy, in unyielding hearts,

two opposite ends of the same breakage.

If we always run from being stung, in Summertime

sometimes we miss out on dawn

thus we must permit

the risk to gain, a possible reward

high in silvering trees

where the sleepy bears

hide their honey.

The magic fairground

I scratch my head, the mixture of henna and indigo dyeing my

finger nails black

thinking of the red pill and the blue

Alice and her little vial

Drink Me

Pandora’s Box

Athena’s head exploding, a rebuttal to Zeus

yellowing wallpaper closing women’s mouths

Radcliffe shouts in her lesbian manifest

those following her down the well of loneliness

high waisted and limber of spine.

I want to nibble upon you morning, noon and night

but I do what is right and keep my fantasies in check

behind the lines of notepads and in the ink of pens

I suck till my tongue turns blue-black

your lips remind me of a pomegranate even without rouge

they look edible, lush, full like an excuse never to apologize

we are girls of violet, our pin in the concentration camps was

a pink V

last night I watched When Hitler Stole White Rabbit

at the Jewish Film Festival, chewed the inside of my mouth

in frustration at the abhorrence of others

when I was a child I did not have a pink rabbit

you left your hair brush and your rose water and your

tattered lace-edged simple night gown

I don’t think you ever wore one again, in the 1970s

nude was in vogue

women coming and going

from my father’s room

with dimpled bottoms and breasts like Claire Bretécher 

I learned my likings on photography books, under the section

‘erotica’ and other arts, believing archly

pornography an expression, when now, thinking back

they had such sorrowful eyes

like deer who stare into

the lights of an oncoming truck

is it bravery or hypnosis? Perhaps

it is fatalism, the French, myself

moving to countries who do not condone

indolence, expecting different results

when escape has no good set of keys

just jangles from your pocket like a taunt.

It’s not cute when you’re over thirty, to

long for the purple balloon in the supermarket

or lie, cat-like on the carpet and me-ow when your lover

is mad

it is not seemly, to be childish when you have

your first crows-feet, or need a push-up bra

unless you leave your glasses to the side

dive in, deep and thick

the molasses of not giving a fuck

where 80 year olds, excel and laugh

like they did at eight without front teeth

much the same, much the same.

The magic fairground, everyone remembers names,

I recall songs and colors of girls eyes

how they look sleeping, with their hands flung

like emotions above their heads, bent at the wrist

bangles on the floor, hidden beneath cascading sheets

elegance in angles, the way eyebrows furrow

in thought, how that line shapes over time into

a question mark, the parchment of skin, in

darkness, tracing braille, for the day none of us

will see, more than the outline of certainty.

You said: “Maybe you won’t love me when my

breasts sag, when I stop working out and the

lines of years begin to encroach. Don’t you like my

firm arms, they do not hang like bats, my mother’s did

I am mortally afraid of skin that hisses when you look

at it.”

Perhaps men had done this to you, torn down

your childhood gauze, made you feel the need to

apologize for things to come. I have read

Dreams Of Young Girls, I know how the photographer

can project a fantasy upon a real girl, even

when she is young, begin to pick her apart

as she unfurls like a Christmas amaryllis, not

caring the pickpockets of their distain

leave her in rags. Or maybe it was another

woman and her cruelty or her hatred? Tight

in an ill-fitting jar, straining to propagate.

“After all, you are so perfect,” you said,

smiling at my narrow hips (like a boy)

my unmarked skin (sun-screen)

the thickness of my hair (good shampoo)

how taut my calves look in leggings (optical illusion)

girls with girls tend to compare

it is not always favorable

though we find in our mixing bowl of humility

a little easement

the tasty wick of joy

burning low into auburn night

going over

those fears

with soft fingertips

and gentle reproaching …

Oh softening

Motioning

Nightfall

In whisper find blessed felicity

A body untouched, lain emptied of worth

brought to life, my Lazarus, spinning moon beneath our chins

rounding music fluting her velvet want to stay beautiful physically

for you to hold your breath as you touch, yes I understand

and still, beauty retains a deeper chord

dancing on raw feet to Erik Sate, trying to impress.

No, love, no, age is wine

spreading in the roof of your oval mouth

each place it has visited will transport you back, among the

grapes, tanned beneath reliable sun till just ripe, rolling in barrels

aged over centuries, buried with

secrets, the taste of fruit and toil, lustily on its wood

roots reaching deeply into history, for every year lived

another branch uncoils, the leaves, a brilliant green, bearing fruit

then flowers, finally sheltering, those beneath

such is a woman, such as you are

lying in my arms, the sweat of sleep, hot on your neck

cheeks pushed against my shoulder blades

causing you to look like you are pursing your lips

in effort to dream

finding ways always

to hold you closer,

closer

closer

closer.

In search of wonder

nobody reads in between the lines

or maybe everyone does

the day she removes her wig and stands

bare skulled for all to see the shroud of mud

her halo, her halo, he is four feet under, he is

not still, neither she, neither we

the ancestors who

fallow the earth, when heaven is closed

from their potential remains, beauty emerges

like a song setting the vibration in your pores

a string instrument without music

pushing back to the day before you

realized you were weeping uncontrolably

as you cycled along overgrown tow path

in search of blackberries, to stain the urge

a badger or a fox would do

something with color and freedom in its movement

take me, take me, I am not content or part

of this stifled world of pretend

I cannot even stitch straight

I see in the glassy eyes of the stuffed, pressed

hotly behind restraining glass, their silent

screaming visage

please let me become part of your make believe

I would live as Mr Fox did, beneath the earth

and brew my cups of magic there

as the irregularity of goodness atests

there is nothing worth waiting up all night for

not now you are broken, not now they are all

left, their footprints ash inside my mouth, a

late form of christening in Winter’s lament.

I miss you, the people whose faces I knew, part of me

part of nothing anymore, they are the last of my kind

what kind is that? When all was pinching and no more intact?

I am broken in ways, mosaic cannot even repair

there are chinks in my armor so raw, unpolished, without spit

sufficient to wipe the dread

they weep blood before I know they are there

no oil, nor prayer can save , no benediction

nor virgin kneeling in fecund earth with all the days

of her life ahead like fresh laundered sheets ready

for their slaying

those with eyes to the sky

they see not gods, I fear

but the winged parallel of our loss of mercy.

I am tired before I am awake

my eyes open to the sound of water

drowning is like the advent, it proceeds over a series of

days, as we attempt survival, urging ourselves to dress, button by

button, the tender details, crashing like hungry waves

against recalcient rock, what will bleed when it

is devoured? What will remain whole in spite?

Remembering your touch, electricity galvanizing

withered skin to longing, growing restless beneath

layers, your reach of me, the place no one finds

I dreamed of you, leaning over, a painting in motion,

your small hand

tethering me to the furnace of your eyes, a language

I couldn’t hold faith in, Je voulais tellement te croire

who is to say, you do not possess beneath your

candle light skin, the fur of ravenous wolves?

How to sustain faith? The thirsty plant, gaping curtain,

the light that gets through

falling on our faces as we watch dust particles

collect like lovers in ever shining quiet

whilst we grow old with the fatigue of loss,

its shroud a warmth against cold nights alone

thinking of the furvor of youth, its glossy coat

shaking off trouble like a lean legged hooker will

stand straight backed even in snow. Our tempest

for life, an appetite, whetting, scuttling blatently

down deserted roads, the roam of longing,

I tie my hair back, pinch my cheeks redder,

watch the violet play of day and night run

her unwashed glass through my eyes, leaving

a smudge of blood, a tinge of what’s to come,

the descend of love, as it bursts full and redolent

throbbing in our ears, like shells pressed tight

blocking out the stifle, hearing her thinning,

each year, a chink of life, apportioned into past

a transaction of dying in
silhouette, the boy swam

against the tide, his muscles straining, ever deepening

wade of escape, we all

keep to our tea stained hour

the rustling moment they were there and photographed

haltingly and aching behind inherited furniture

their eyes like mine, covered over with

old coin

sent to another realm, behind, stand behind

time and her exquisite fangs

drinking the lost salt of this land

her daughters

her sons

they grow weary of watching

and turning slow like dials

in dusk

their shape sharp

against the ochre

bleed of diminishing

sun

elongating until

their form is

altered ever

more.

Forbidden ivory

It’s funny.

I know I don’t know you well. I know I never may.

But if I died now, I would take you as part of my life, deeper than makes sense in this rhelm.

It is hard to know it may not be returned, but it doesn’t change how it is.

Forbidden ivory.

Maybe some people we knew before. I can explain it no other way.

The effect you have. As absurd or minor it may be to you, is quite the opposite for me.

Yet if someone told me that and they meant as little as I mean to you, I wouldn’t get it, or even care.

But it exists for some reason.

Perhaps a caressing revenge. From those who throughout history have walked in my shoes and known the knifes edge of unrequited feelings.

When I think of you, it is with a calm bitterness and a wild urge, to shake your bound feelings alive

As if violence could awake love. As if screaming could change minds. As if I can stir you alive.

You sing from your tree top at night and I gnash my teeth in my mortal despair.

Like all games, the moves are planned far ahead. They mimic fate.

And just like a fated thing, I am bound to your amusement, the collar tight about my throat.

I forget what it feels like, to take flight. As your weight hangs about me.

Rain on dry earth. Unable to penetrate and nourish. Smoke urging from thirst.

Death surrounds you, when the sea is involved.

For love

Love

you lie like a stain

on my face of

marbled feelings

I try to remain cold

untouched by

your passionate framing

unsure in my own self doubt

whether I am worthy of

any portraiture.

Love

you slip like a dream

from my frigid bed and if you were

a woman you’d be a woman of the world

Indian, Malaysian, perhaps from Istanbul

you’d wear bells on your ankles

and have hennaed big toes

and elderberry lips

and your smile would hurt

like a thousand breaking stars.

Love

you rest as a friend

on my empty shoulders

when I feel I cannot bear

another load, one more day, a single minute

longer

in this empty carriage journey

through furnace and fury

you comfort me with the leniency

of your gift, like a child who

seeing someone crying

will reach instinctively

and wipe tears away

with the goodness of their

pure reflex.

Love

you are crystal set against fading sunlight

on a day of horrors

you light our fire place

and cook a warm meal

you run a bath and dim the hour

until all we see is shadows

they drift without pressure

on warm current

until they become absorbed

in our evolving sleep.

Love

you rescue me from the edge

in a dream, you cross reality

and waking, I know it is you I have

touched and though we never have

the mercy of that tender hour

waits on me all day

like a balm, soothing the

years of being told

it is unnatural to feel as I do.

Love

you take few faces, you are once in a life time

but in each woman, I glimpse

a little of you

like a pinch of saffron

will go a long way

and a gold hem can

light up a grey dress

like an empty garden will seem

full when you visit and rain clouds

are welcome where we live

all year round.

For love

you are upside down and inside out

and love

dear, soft edged, warm necked

crossed limbed, laughing throated

cascading haired, chocolate eyed love,

you save me

every single time.

As The World Burns – Out Now!

Indie Blu(e) Publishing are very proud to announce the publication of As The World Burns. Our third socially-aware anthology. As The World Burns is available via all good book stores in Kindle and softback NOW. It is an incredible collection of writers, many of whom are from WordPress and are in our writing groups, writing some of our favorite work. We hope you will support them and our efforts to spread awareness of socially vital subjects. If you have felt frustrated with politics, Covid-19, Black Lives Matter, Homophobia or any of the things happening ‘as the world burns’ this is the collection for you.

We dedicate this anthology to those who have bravely fought the  encroaching darkness in 2020 with their writing and their art,  and who insist that racism, sexism, homophobia, and war are  not inevitable, or acceptable, facets of the human condition.  As The World Burns is a story of survival and an act of  resistance. We speak with many voices, to the damage  wrought in these violent, fevered months. Let us never forget or  turn away, from what is just, what is necessary, to keep light  alive in this world. 

If you are a fan of any of the following authors and artists please consider reading this incredible collection & if you see your name here, link me with your page or LMK and I will hyperlink it. Where I have not found your name on WordPress I have linked to work of yours on WordPress or to your website:

Susi Bocks (poet, SMITTEN), dani bowes (poet SMITTEN), Annette Kalandros (poet WordPress/Facebook/We Will Not Be Silenced), F I Goldhaber (poet We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress), Kai Coggin (poet SMITTEN/Internationally recognized poet), Dawn McKenzie (poet We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress/Facebook), Sean McGraw (poet SMITTEN), Rachel Kobin (poet/writer We Will Not Be Silenced), Melita White (poet WordPress), John Leys (poet WordPress), A. Lawler (poet SMITTEN), Irma Do (poet SMITTEN), Kendall Krantz (poet SMITTEN/Actor), Jamie L. Smith (poet SMITTEN), Jimmi Campkin (WordPress/Photographer), Robert Okaji (WordPress/Internationally recognized poet), Maria Gianna Iannucci (poet WordPress), Marisela Brazfield (poet), Aakriti Kuntal (poet WordPress/We Will Not Be Silenced/The Kali Project), Milly Webster (poet SMITTEN), Dierdre Fagan (poet SMITTEN/We Will Not Be Silenced/), Ali Grimshaw (poet We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress), Dr. Sneha Rooh (poet SMITTEN/WordPress), Marcia Weber (poet, We Will Not Be Silenced), Sarah Ito (poet SMITTEN), Henri Bensussen (poet SMITTEN), Sarah Bigham (poet/writer We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress), Charu Sharma (poet We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress), Karissa Whitson (poet SMITTEN), Lindz McLeod (poet SMITTEN), Rachel Finch (poet/writer SMITTEN/We Will Not Be Silenced/Editor Indie Blu(e)), Crystal Kinistino (poet/feminist activist WordPress/SMITTEN/We Will Not Be Silenced/Medium), Dani Bowes (poet SMITTEN), Jaya Avendel (WordPress/We Will Not Be Silenced/The Kali Project), Erik Klingenberg (poet WordPress), Liz DeGregorio (poet SMITTEN), Sammie Payne (photographer/poet/Facebook/Instagram), L Stevens (poet), Jennifer Carr (poet SMITTEN), Matt Eayre (poet WordPress poet/writer/author), Rachel Roth (poet SMITTEN), Tony Single (WordPress/illustrator/graphic novelist/poet), A Shea (poet WordPress, SMITTEN, Facebook/Instagram), Rachel Tijou (poet We Will Not Be Silenced/Photographer), Emje Mccarty (artist/illustrator/poet/WordPress), Lola White (WordPress poet), Sally Zakariya (SMITTEN poet), Carol Jewell (SMITTEN poet), HOKIS (poet/philosopher SMITTEN/WordPress), Patricia Q Bidar (SMITTEN), Sun Hesper Jansen (poet/philisopher/MS campaigner WordPress) Erin Van Vuren (SMITTEN poet/internationally recognized poet on Instagram), Tremaine Loadholt (Medium/SMITTEN/WordPress writer & editor), Marcia Weber (poet/WordPress), Carrie Weis (artist/poet WordPress/We Will Not Be Silenced), Marvlyn Vincent (poet SMITTEN/WordPress), Sarah Ito (SMITTEN poet), Teresa Chappell (SMITTEN poet), Tia Hudson (SMITTEN poet), Aviva Lilith (SMITTEN poet), Anthony Glenn (writer/poet WordPress), Devereaux Frazier (writer/poet Facebook/Instagram/WordPress), Char Trolinder (writer/poet Facebook), Jesica Nodarse (poet SMITTEN/We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress), Eric Syrdal (writer/poet WordPress/We Will Not Be Silenced), Sarah Doughty (writer/poet WordPress/We Will Not Be Silenced), Eleanor Knight (Singer/Songwriter Facebook/Instagram), Ashley Jane (Poet, WordPress, SMITTEN, We Will Not Be Silenced, Instagram, Facebook), Ruth Bowley (poet, WordPress), Mela Bust (Poet, WordPress, Facebook, Instagram), John Leys (Poet, WordPress), Hoda Esta (Poet, SMITTEN), Nicholas Gagnier (Writer/Poet Instagram/We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress), John Cochrane (Writer/Poet WordPress), John Biscello (Writer/Poet WordPress), Jane Dougherty (Writer/Poet WordPress), DM Burton (Poet), Melissa Fadul (Writer/Poet WordPress/SMITTEN/We Will Not Be Silenced), Selene Crosier (Poet, SMITTEN), Tamara Madison (Writer/Poet WordPress), Irma Do (poet SMITTEN), Carla Toney (writer/poet SMITTEN), Philip Vernon (Writer/Philosopher WordPress), Linda Crate (poet SMITTEN), Sonja Beauchamp (poet SMITTEN), Elle Arra (writer/poet/WordPress), Merril Smith (Writer/Historian. SMITTEN Foreword/author of The Dictionary of Rape), Hanlie Robbertse (Poet Facebook/Instagram), Petru Vijoen (poet SMITTEN), Maria Gray (poet SMITTEN), Kristiana Reed (poet, WordPress/We Will Not Be Silenced & Editor of Free Verse Revolution), Velma Hamilton (poet SMITTEN), Katherine DeGilio (poet SMITTEN), Christine Ray (Co-Founder of Indie Blu(e) Publishing, Poet SMITTEN, We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress), Kindra Austin (Co-Founder of Indie Blu(e) Publishing, Poet SMITTEN, We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress), SA Quinox (poet SMITTEN/WordPress/We Will Not Be Silenced), Leslea Newman (foreword We Will Not Be Silenced/Internationally recognized poet), Amie Campbell (poet SMITTEN), Rob Plath (poet, WordPress), Jessica Jacobs (poet, Internationally recognized poet/SMITTEN), Megha Sood (poet, The Kali Project/SMITTEN), Nayana Nair (poet, WordPress/SMITTEN), Allie Nelson (poet, WordPress), Kim Harvey (Poet, SMITTEN), Cynthia Bryant (poet, SMITTEN), Nadia Garofolo (Musician/Poet), Rachael Ikins (poet/photographer, SMITTEN, We Will Not Be Silenced/WordPress), Devika Mathur (The Kali Project/WordPress poet), Destiny Killian (poet, SMITTEN), Andrew McDowell (poet, WordPress), Dustin Pickering (poet/writer WordPress).

The unseen world

At the corner of your mouth, where it curls in gentle distain, a little spiting mirth, lives the unseen world

In your eyes, polished obsidian run through with black onyx, lies the hearth of your internal combustion

As you breathe, I cannot fail to notice the lovely juxtaposition of your bones gleaming beneath apricot skin, as the buttons on your shirt atest, each breath yawning her fitful glimpse

I cannot help but wonder those stored bottles of delight, high upon your shelf, how your nipples would taste, the flowered breath of your heart of palm

And divining central, that pulsing mandala, reaching her fragrance into dreamworld, the color of aubergine and hibiscus bled in winter river as redwood is lost to time

My artichoke girl, wreathed in wild flowers, your body a temple for this supplicant, as light diminishes, your thirsty form grows spectral, a mango tree heavy in fruiting

From within, you glow with the hardy tempest of your nature, a pulsing, feckless creature, nimble in your art of deft possession

If I could starve for want of you, I believe I would. For no moment passes with satisfaction, unless in some way, you exist on its marble periphery

The very yoke of a day is cast by your presence. I could subsist on the rounding detour of your thighs for a hundred sleepless nights

Grow from your slumber the memories of your cries, curled in my ear, my lips, my reincarnation of our slippery motion to capture

When it is cold my hands seek your bright match to kindle animation, climbing from the solace of you, strengthened by remembered, evoked echo of intimacy

A song wound around my ribs as river reeds pull the charmed to their divine drowning and with last sip of air we relinquish control and let go

My love, your eyes bewitch my life blood, kindling the charred rejoinder of hope, a poppet to your sorcerery, emerging from deep forest

When dying comes for me, it’ll be your face I kiss, feverish and familiar, your preternatural smile haunting my passage, faithful ghost, mine

For some there is no method of separation, we are bound in crushed roses to one

In this place. In each other. A languid, yawning soft space between, the unseen world.