I hide behind a mask, of liquid and paint, I’ll smear it on my clear skin, hide the scars within, liquid gold to my self esteem. I’ll hide behind my mask, where the real me won’t be seen. Jennifer Calvert
It’s the shade of blue that covers the sky
In December, when the sun is high
The light that crosses over your face
Shadows hold to no avail
Could it be you’re a mere fragment of my imagination?
Cask from the depths of my soul
Conjured from the wanting of my heart and
shaped by the very essence of my mind
Aware am I
That all this could be a dream
The fall of golden blonde across your shoulders
And silky skin
Pallid in the early hours
When dawn performs
Emerging as a holy flower
A blessing and a curse
Sin and virtue pooled
Tasted by a fool
Lips of red wine,
My bleeding heart
Created you from the vine
Photos courtesy of google images.
I know its been awhile and I’ve missed my writing space and writing friendships made. The last few months have proved challenging. I’m due to have my second baby girl in two weeks and my ability to write has disappeared? My mind is blank with the upcoming event taking centre stage! Please forgive my absence.
MERRY CHRISTMAS and a HAPPY NEW YEARS everyone!
I hope you have a wonderful holiday with family and friends.
Here’s new and exciting adventures in 2017!
‘The Mighty Quill’ by Jay Blue Poems. Such beauty and exquisiteness in his writing.
Grand! The mighty feather tears a flurried wind cross the page,
tip of quill enticed to drink, and drunken pours it out in rage!
Rips the fabric white in arcs that smolder in the drying!
Dips its nose again to sneer, and smears emotions in the trying.
Pen in thoughtless hand so stained and blotted by the pain within,
against its will is forced to kill the very page with sin.
Seduced in errant commas, gastric spelling of acrid words,
then bends to touch the love therein with gentle kiss of humming birds.
Then splash! Again is wrought in flurried panic fanfare.
Scratches out a misplaced phrase and stands amidst the blotch to stare…
And there the heart is landed, softly in a sudden thought,
that to the page the pen, in grace, pours a drop of love there wrought.
Tis nothing short of miracle, tis nothing less than mad,
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There is a scar
that covers about three inches of skin
on soft tissue,
just above your breast,
it runs a jagged line
it reminds me of a flower vine
creeping up your neck,
faded in time
a silver tattoo left,
Does it feel different on the tongue?
I run my lips across the serrated point
Quickening with every lick,
Each mark holds a depth untold
I feel a beating pulse within –
more than just a hollow organ;
a heart of its own
flowing in feelings.
This scar that is visible
carried upon your chest
weighing too heavy
for you to undress
like a photograph –
a moment never forgotten.
A permanent welt.
A visible form.
If the scar wasn’t there to remind you?
Could you forget it?
It’s been on my mind –the idea of a scar. We all have scars. Some are visible, some hidden and those buried so deeply, that we are ourselves are shocked to find they are there.
Does wearing our scars in different ways affect our-self?
Do we carry them for everyone to see?
Or hide them so deeply, that we forgot them, for a time.
Because even if we bury our burdens, they have a way of resurfacing.
Is it better to wear our scars?
WRITTEN BY J.CALVERT 2016
ALL PHOTOGRAPHS BELONG TO TALENTED PHOTOGRAPHER ANNA O.PHOTOGRAPHY 2015
Poetry by K M. Russel
When he reached out to take her hand,
She knew it was the start
Of his journey to her heart:
Their worlds collided,
Sculpting her skin
And his lips
Reading each scar,
Each line on her palm;
Healing the broken
Heart in her open
I long for the sunshine of another climate
But cannot stand the agonising wait,
The jostle of station and airport queues,
And tourists who obstruct the views.
I hide inside
From rainy grey,
Waiting for the flash
Of random rays,
Any hint of sunny days.
I smell the gentle singe
Of sun upon my winter skin
And, without hesitation,
Haul a chair into the garden,
A book tucked underneath my arm
In my hand,
A glass of wine,
Cerise and sweet,
Licence to bask in summertime.
Rain in Vallagrina Valley
Sticky with kisses of raindrops,
The town overflows with red rooftops,
Splintering like slabs of toffee
On the slopes of Vallagrina Valley.
Ghostly bells in each church tower,
Mumble and mutter on the hour,
Warning every square and alley:
A storm is brewing in the valley.
Mountains choke with fermenting cloud
And thunder threnody echoes loud.
Umbrellas mushroom in the streets,
For daily errands cannot wait.
Puddles and overflowing gullies
Are typical in Vallagrina Valley.
My name is Kim M. Russell, my website is Writing in North Norfolk and I live in Norfolk, England, not far from the North Sea coast: the perfect place for inspiration. I have been writing poetry since I was a teenager, a very long time now. When I lived in Germany, I wrote in German and English, and had several poems published. Now I write only in English, with a few translations now and again.
Until a few years ago, I was teaching at a high school and didn’t have much time for writing, but since I’ve retired, it seems like I can’t stop! I’m in the process of revising a novel for children, set in Second World War Two London; I’m half-way through a young adult novel set on the North Norfolk coast; and I’ve started developing another young adult novel set in Norwich.
‘My first love will always be poetry.’
slips behind the moon
the maple tree glows red,
In tendrils of spidery webs
my fingers caress the earth,
the delicate aroma of evening primrose,
blossoms exposed on dusk.
The warmth of the sun fading –
the cool air weighs
heavily around my shoulders,
the lace shawl a slip across my vulnerability.
The beetles scuttle across the grass below,
Searching for a place to call their own.
I, a shapeless shadow,
disguised by the comfort of night
white stargazer lilies
upon the burial site,
a stagnant boulder
my eyes aching in
fits of weeping,
red rimmed and creasing,
hysteria took my heed.
Taken to the ground
my tears and
all my days gone,
an ancient story
Goodbye my love.
Unfold my limbs across
our final resting place
Under the sun and
I’ll lie with you all my days.
I’m still here
lingering in the chaos
of the day.
I haven’t disappeared, although it might seem so. I’m still here, but the last few months have seen me too busy to write much or get on to read all your fabulous work, here on WordPress. I’m sorry for that, because every poet should read a lot of poetry.
So, where have I been and why so busy?
Well I just handed in my last and final uni essay. It has been a long six years of study. Between work, pregnancy and children, writing and life in it’s self. I’m finally finished,
Oh the relief!
The feeling of utter relief washed over me, when I pressed send on my uni website. This is it; no more uni essays. Until the next time, I have the wonderful idea of ‘hmmm maybe I should study some more?’ Please NO! But that is me, always challenging myself, always thinking of the next dream. Will it ever stop. Even now, I’m thinking, what next?
But for right now I need to enjoy my free time. Huh what free time? I have a three year old and another on the way. Yes, I’m pregnant, with another beautiful daughter. So life as I know it, will change again. I’ll be even more busier. If that’s possible?
The drawstrings of your dress
down your spine,
reveal a tender back
and little hairs, fine.
A jumble of knotted vanilla ribbons,
reminds me of the hayloft,
where we rested our heads
the summer before last,
when the world owed us
and we found solace in the stars
the drawstrings of your dress
down your spine
such a carnage of skin
straw milled, light
your hair all sticks and leaves
swallowed by the burden
the weight of birch stick
leaving welts behind.
Behind a door
of vintage rust
and sterling frame
the light stretched
in hues of golden rays,
Beneath the threshold
a little box
of household goods,
telling of a life once lived,
Tears of sorrow
her eyes wide
open and knowing
hands of yesterday’s grasp,
slipping from her throat,
all that kept her
the bars of society bled
and the walls became paper-thin
the whispers grew into screams
and she knew it only
as a beautiful lie
and soaked in
SET ME FREE
The edges of the paper
loosely twisted cord
smouldering in the dark
and vanilla plum
the heat overcomes
the smoked-filled room
washes down her throat
suffocating her lungs
the script melts
ink and promises
dissolve into night
black smoke left hovering
the words of her lover
the oil lamp burns on.