Whiskey Glass

woodman

Photo by Frances Livings

The dewy kiss of morning light,
shines upon our wallpaper
water stains
crease the lines
and bare our pain
lipstick marks the mirror,
crimson curled
floral and mould weave
an asymmetrical pattern
breathing life into where we dwell

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Photo by Francesca Woodman

We’re the sawed off pieces of vintage
lace blowing against the window frame
The rotting leg, of a Victorian chase
mercury glass hangs –
the ceiling; a cold damp place,
with a tobacco stench

You, sit in silence
with a comb through your hair,
like an willow branch bowed at the waist
once an oriental lily,
now a bud cut from a stem

I, sit in silence
with a whiskey glass in my hand,
fingers blanched
Blank and vacant decadence
a childlike glance

We can’t recollect
a time before this,
Our withered bones and shredded skin
glisten in the sun
breeding
an unfortunate tale
one of stagnant drench.

@ J.CALVERT 2017

When I wrote this, I had a clear picture in my head, of a beautiful women fading-vacant and a man with a whiskey glass in hand. A time of depression, where the bottle took over their lives. Not sure where this poem came from, but it was written. Funny how the writers mind works.

Do you often read your work back and think where did this come from?

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Evening Primrose

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Portrait of sadness by Agnieszka Lorek

Before the light of day
slips behind the moon
the maple tree glows red,
In tendrils of spidery webs
my fingers caress the earth,
Overcome by
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,
Dawdling,
an ancient story
buried below,
Untold,
Goodbye my love.
Unfold my limbs across
our final resting place
Under the sun and
Clouded night.

I’ll lie with you all my days.

J.CALVERT 2016

Sticks and Stones

Elizabeth Rose sat on the edge
Her wooden heart
Sawing the grain –
Blood in the cut
Opening with a thread
The hem only bordered
by flimsy flesh
Elizabeth Rose dangled her legs
Over the rim
her red eyes weeping,
a dirge
for the dead
Sticks and stones left
Horse bones and ashes swept
Elizabeth Rose staggered to her feet
Shaking legs
Black smoke billowed
Around the fallen,
Her frame borne,
a walking memory
as she continues on.

 

J.CALVERT 2016