after the first rain
the smell of earth filled the air
& the tree of lungs inside me
ozone tickled my senses
as every fibre reached & thrilled
i could not get enough of it all
after the last pain
i put her memory behind me
tho’ saddened i faced a new day
& now i’m learning to live again
now i’m learning to breathe again
after drought the rains always come
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021
deadwood on a silent shore
the crack of daylight on her face
says maybe she won’t want to die
one day
ever unsure
unable to see tomorrow
yonder rot & spore
& chokehold of black trees
the war in her brain
can anything numb the pain
thunderclouds or amnesty
they say the forecast is up to she
dumbly she hangs ‘tween root & limb
awaiting the rain
ever unsure
the marrow’s in the morrow
this is what they say
but hope is a blithe man’s game
deadwood on a silent shore
she doesn’t know how to be
defiled she hangs lightly
for another day
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2023
have you dared to declaim with your true face
have you seen how they inward flinch
have they made a monster of the hole in you
have you longed for truest validation
have their eyes doth pummelled your face to tears
have you hidden your tears under veil of rain
if only this was a happy song
if only we could fill our lungs again
if only for the air ‘tween the drops of rain
have you pulled truer weeds from the broken earth
have you doth counted and more so for praying
have you monstered after the four-leaf clover
have you truly known that you never belonged here
have you paid your respects to friend grief again
have you layed yourself down in the face of pain
if only this was a happy song
if only we could feel our lungs again
if only for the air ‘tween the drops of pain
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2022
so the strongman fashioned another straw man
tilted at fabrications of discourse and taboo
pain, meanwhile, yielded to another hurricane
a hierarchy that deigns to explain away my own
i’m forever to be grateful or else don’t you know
they stranded themselves on virtue without a mountain
pontificated o’er the ears and eyes they’d shat upon
that were fatally struck dumb by the gift of tongues
but i’ll sing it from the depths don’t you know
of all i think i know, of all i think i don’t
maybe i’ll live and die like this alone
but i’ll not die on my knees in order to appease
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2022
The willows stand by Fringford brook,
From Fringford up to Hethe,
Sun on their cloudy silver heads,
And shadow underneath.
They ripple to the silent airs
That stir the lazy day,
Now whitened by their passing hands,
Now turned again to grey.
The slim marsh-thistle’s purple plume
Droops tasselled on the stem,
The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame
The grass that harbours them;
Long drowning tresses of the weeds
Trail where the stream is slow,
The vapoured mauves of water-mint
Melt in the pools below;
Serenely soft September sheds
On earth her slumberous look,
The heartbreak of an anguished world
Throbs not by Fringford brook.
All peace is here. Beyond our range,
Yet ‘neath the selfsame sky,
The boys that knew these fields of home
By Flemish willows lie.
They waded in the sun-shot flow,
They loitered in the shade,
Who trod the heavy road of death,
Jesting and unafraid.
Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace
Lies at the heart of pain,
For respite, ere the spirit’s load
We stoop to lift again.
O load of grief, of faith, of wrath,
Of patient, quenchless will,
Till God shall ease us of your weight
We’ll bear you higher still!
O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook,
‘Tis more than peace you give,
For you, who knew so well to die,
Shall teach us how to live.
by VIOLET JACOB (1863-1946)
Public Domain Poetry
unbolt me 