In the
quiet
of the
still
there is
no sound,
there is
no light,
only the
pulse
of a distant
heart.
The
chirrup
of a
cricket,
the murmuration
of a starling,
the splash
of a
minnow.
The
burden lies,
wakes the
still-
beating earth,
echoes
down the
roots
into the
deepest
darkest
chamber.
Mother
Nature listens,
her head
to the side,
offers sweet-sour
solace
to the rootless.
A single
tear falls,
scorches
the ground.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, December 1, 2022
The labyrinth
You seek a guide,
a ruby phoenix
rising in the swirling
maelstrom,
a blazing armory
in the pitch
to light the right
way forward.
It will burn these
high walls down,
if you ask it,
this ice-cold prison
of their making,
taking the pool
of voices, paper
cut-out faces.
In the labyrinth the
minotaur roars,
half-man, half-beast,
his hooves scuff
the dried red dust
of his enemies,
his hide etched with falsehoods.
The moon illuminates
his wrongs
as she drifts through
silver starlight.
Spirits wander the
twists and turns,
seeking their ancestors,
true answers,
writing on pages
made of air,
whispering secrets
the wind said.
At the entrance of this puzzled heart
Ariadne holds out
her ball of wall.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 18, 2022
Some poems for Remembrance Sunday. In memory of family members and everyone else who has served or is serving in a war, at home or abroad.
Poppy seeds (WW2)
We rise as soldiers,
taken from our beds as youths,
stripped from the warmth of family
to lands we’ve never seen,
places never heard of before,
from conversation and cosy silences
to the roar of guns, planes, bombs,
scuff of dirt, splintered wounds.
We suffer it for the greater cause,
memories of loved ones we’ve left,
hiding in the bowels of the Underground
and hideaways not built for this.
We charge into the face of danger
not knowing if it sees us,
not knowing if it will turn its cheek
and let us return back home.
We think on a thing that’s true,
talk of freedom, a reflection of the time
we cannot have, this yesterday of ours.
Boots stamp the hills of our country flat,
choke it with fire, wails and bullets,
black smoke, explosions splintering glass.
The snake rides its hide for 40 miles out,
carves a barren trench in our supple soil.
This is not living. It’s a smothering of life,
this sharp shock to the consciousness.
He walks with death, this stickman, the usurper,
this mad dictator whose greed is his undoing.
The old women weep. They hug our hearts
to their chests. We are rag dolls. Sunflowers
nod beneath a pale blue, quaking sky.
We ask for our skies to be sheltered,
but we are pleading to the silence of fear.
People fight and people tower ever higher,
growing in magnitude to match their courage,
but we are small; the children are so small.
We ball our fists and scream into the dark,
wondering if our outrage will see us through.
We can smell him through the smoldering wood
and he pretends to know our weaknesses.
But we are strong; we are united in our fight.
The sun may go down in our restless sky,
but we will never sink lower than the horizon.
We hold the sunflowers against our skin,
bathe in the golden glow they bestow.
His poem: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/wednesday-poetry-prompts-624
In my early 20s, I was living with a boyfriend in southeast London. One day I received a letter, addressed to me, with my name and surname and full address and postcode. It was from a woman I'd never met, but who knew my boyfriend. She told me they were seeing each other and to stay home the next time he went to a particular club because she wanted to spend that time with him and for me not to be there. I remember she said: I'm far more woman than you.
doesn’t mean you should.
Think about the other woman,
think about the other man,
and just walk away.
and even if they tell you it’s doomed,
they’re involved with someone else,
so just walk away.
and sometimes a family,
so do the decent thing,
and just walk away.
to cheat on their partner or spouse.
Give them a piece of your mind
as you walk away.
and not betray the one they’re with.
As Dolly once sang: “Don’t take my man
just because you can.”
Robert Lee Brewer poetry prompt: write a combo poem.
His poem: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/wednesday-poetry-prompts-623
Bangers and mash,
fish and chips, Mork
and Mindy, Sonny and
Cher. Combos. Twos.
Pairs rushed in and rang
the changes, dragged us to
attention, let us know they
being a combo. Being a two.
They stripped the stage bare
in reinvention. Betwixt the two.
threw red roses at the end.
A blackbird sang of morning
while the world turned.
A Robert Lee Brewer poetry prompt – a ‘noun of place’
poem. His poem: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/wednesday-poetry-prompts-620
where the story leads us, wishing on a mile
of things yonder as the spiky trees grow wilder,
and plants thicker, the woolly undergrowth a mix
of wild things, pouting flowers, thistles, meandering
lines of minted leaves betwixt butterflies’ wings
yawning wide, and the scent carries, inspiring bumble
bees, their sprightly buzz slipping in air like a
light mower,
arcs of sunlight mosaic glinting on their gossamer
wings,
this smooth lace, flickering, darting in and out of
pollen-filled horns, the gooey yellow thickness
sticking
to their stripey bodies vibrating, hovering, dew
delicately
balanced on all the edges, velveteen and surviving.
Robert Lee Brewer poetry prompt – write an ‘out of
time’ poem
but the sand has slipped.
It’s seeping out, exchanging
glances with the cracked glass.
the material sculpts itself,
becoming something larger,
too big to scoop in one hand.
The radio is a-buzz with words,
a steady multiplication, dishing
out broken fragments on
repeat. We’re out of time, exits
All messages are read, except
those that don’t echo the
propaganda machine.
buried in the sand. Still winds
blow fresh cover, like an ocean ripped.
Those who stood here are voiceless.
