a black-clad harridan sits in the parvis
gazes into the dark sky with watery eyes
knobby yellow fingers stick out from mittens
like tilted candles on the requiem stone
by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2019
Aye, I am foolish for I know
That I shall sadden when you go,
And I am blind because I see
That you were more than God to me:
A brighter sun than Heaven’s shone
When I was with you, Daedalon.
Can I find strength enough to stand
The last slight pressure of your hand;
Can I find fortitude to bear
The knowledge that you are not there,
Then turn my Book of Life upon
The memory of Daedalon
Remember you! No, no, I’ll shut
The Book, or from its pages cut
The image of you graven there,
The dingy tangle of your hair,
Your ill-kept hands and lifeless face,
And seek friends in some other place.
Forget you? … When my heart repeats
Your wisdom to me as it beats? …
That always you may be the same
My rhymes shall vivify your name …
Aye, cunningly I’ll play upon
The happy name of Daedalon.
But you were cold to me, I know,
Who never dreamed my thoughts to show,
But sat content to hear you speak,
And see the bronzeness of your cheek,
Your sunburnt nose and wounded eye …
But never told you, no, not I.
Yes, I am blind; but still I saw
The beauty of you all the more,
How slowly came your drawled reply,
How gleamed your artificial eye;
And on the morrow you’ll be gone …
Ah, but I loved you, Daedalon.
by J.R. ACKERLEY (1896-1967)
Public Domain Poetry
Do you remember where you were the day the red god fell? Like a cannon shot from the heavens it was, and I was only six. Ma was bouncing me off her knee. She stopped that quick smart. A lot of things stopped that day. My childhood for one.
I couldn’t possibly comprehend all that this singular moment of deity impacting earth would take from me, but I’d soon come to. I’d learn that suddenly pa was gone, that I’d have to ‘step up’ and be ‘the man of the household’.
There would be no more pony rides for me.
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017
Made of paper
Write our words
In careful ink
Gather yet dry
Clothes on line
Falls in noiseless
Dashes birds from roost
Darkening impending cloud
Like spilt ink
Of my stained
Dried and smudgeproof
by CANDICE DAQUIN
© All rights reserved 2016