Sunday Sonnet, #27, 2016

Moonlight shining bright tonight, beacon of silver, cloak of mercury to cover all beneath her massive sphere.  Goddess, her who hangs pendant when darkness awakes, love of the mortals below her alarm (of rare occasion does she observe not, err to a blackness unbecoming).  Never does she mark not the passage of the stars –…

A Poetic Continuance – This, That

Head full of this, that trouble of concern endless. Distraction found in watching light play through glass, shadow birds trapped, flapping around the room where he sits, head full of this, that problem unsolvable which haunted him since long, long ago. A fairytale cruel, almost, the way his life had turned out, sat here alone, head full…

Sunday Sonnet, #25, 2016

[Image from Pinterest] A walk at night, no torch, just light of moon to show the way.  Chill calm of dark on skin, refreshing.  She breathes in deep.  Oh, so thin the divide between night and day; how soon sun reborn on the horizon is.  Boon to know beyond her, there, in blacker, in denser…

The Key Party – A Poetic Continuance

[Image from Pinterest] Kate walked in, quaking from nerves. She’d never done this before, but he wanted it.  Wanted one of them – the other wives. Why not? he’d pleaded.  Perfectly normal thing to do. Why not? she thought miserably. Where to start?  The women were gorgeous, granted.  And yet the men…  She could feel them,…

That Morning – A Poetic Continuance

[Image from Pinterest] That morning, particular day’s beginning she’d never forget, in sleep even awake with brush in hand she’d heard the call – song of outside world, reality beyond the walls. Eyes fatigue glazed still, cheeks blush tinged as fruit in bowl, ripening with pungent scent to perfume the corridor, mask the smell of…

Sunday Sonnet, #24, 2016

[Image by Natalia Drepina] Back of hand upon grass, green against white; in her palm a bloom, plucked from wild – a sign of her freedom, quashed when she’d moved in; wine not enough to dull ache of her loss.  Kite without a breeze she felt now.  That she might have turned away, not played…

Sunday Sonnet, #23, 2016

[Image from Pinterest] Top lip beaded with sweat, she sips the drink, ice-filled and chinking against glass – the last of the evening.  Or should be, she knows, past experience having taught her to think and not accept invitation to drink a little longer; stay.  Finger on glass traces condensation, time to pause (grass so…

Sunday Sonnet (on a Monday, Alternatively Rhymed), #22, 2016

[Image by Natalie Gibbs on Pinterest] Like a finger dipped in honey, the dog worries at its paw, licking who knows what from the fields and woods.  She looks on: how odd to taste one’s skin, she thinks, to clean and wash like a cat, tongue so tentative.  But watch on she does.  Rhythm hypnotic…

Sunday Sonnet (with Alternative Rhyme), #21, 2016

[Image from Pinterest] A lake.  Not a mirror by which to see herself, but a window to forgetting. Liquid, still or stirred by something unseen. She sits, prays to memory’s loss, hope; waiting. Tears innumerable has she shed.  Bees have been born, raised, worked, and then died.  Passing of time, of seasons spent here, slips…

Sunday Sonnet, #20, 2016

[Image from Pinterest] Just this.  Strolling, one being, through the grass – so tall, she felt a child; infant of Earth. A brush, a touch, seeds into palm: no dearth of life here, in meadow so lush.  A last paradise of promise; wild pre-Man.  Past behaviour, historic wounds unseen: birth secret, conceived without aid.  With…

Sunday Sonnet (Slightly Altered), #19, 2016

[Image from Pinterest] A morning of mist wherein her breath was that of wisps: a puff of air, not even her hair moved by breeze, but cloying, leaving tendrils to caress her cheek, moist.  Her gloves a possibility, even now – buzz of bees and wasps song of June; uneven pattern of summer weather culprit,…

Sunday Sonnet, #18, 2016

[Image by Richard Brocken] It calls to her, prisoner in cage of fabric.  Freedom it needs, freedom to sing out its soul, a tale of ancestors; kings and queens in stories of crafted wood.  Love made the captive and from love its voice, dove- like rises until hawk-like soars, ring of clouds a halo to its…