Roiling inside, she boils like pitch.
Once sensuous, caressing; now seething, enveloping;
White silks’ soft seductions torn and re-sewn into her black gravid cloak folds;
Wreathed around her in the vain pursuit of solace, they just seal in the cold.
The slighted mistress’ vindictive rage is unleashed in an envious ejaculation of impotent hate,
A transient sonic satiation, its hollow echoes reverberating to nothing.
Time after time, the very earth trembles,
But her vainglorious heart remains unappeased.
Where once lovers’ soft whispers caressed,
The gentlest of stolen touches hardened to unseen ebon-painted talons,
That picked, plucked, ensnared.
Now venting her unrequited fury, howling, she rends any and all she touches –
Heedless of the broken lives she leaves behind.
Silvered electric arc-lights play in her indigo hair,
Callous barbed pins hypnotizing entranced watchers,
Fixating them like moths to her collector’s board.
After-images play across the velvet undulating contours of her cloaked breast,
Each an incandescent reflection of her caprice.
Yet Time permeates all,
And pours forth an unrelenting deluge of Justice from which there is no sanctuary.
It gathers, into a swollen torrent, seeking to bear her away,
As alone, reviled, she shelters foetally in the bed she failed to make,
Her cloak sodden with love’s lost cold, bitter tears.
‘Aftermath Of A Stormy Night.’ A poem by T. James, © 31st October, 2011.
For nights on end,
The sky was red,
As though the moon had been stabbed
And was bleeding.
Then suddenly the stars appeared,
So I wished and prayed,
For love to be given me.
But again the sky turned scarlet,
And my heart sank behind a cloud.
Then the moon shone bright
And a star burned through my window.
© 1999, 2011 Amy Adams
When I first travelled to this planet boredom of past led me on,
Seeking to walk on this world, I kept my body from the sun,
I wanted my solar battery to remain empty, all my power gone,
Though life is out there, days of travel in nothing isn’t fun.
The only interests to see, were a galaxy here and a galaxy there,
Some planets hold life, some do not, but they seek company,
And boredom isn’t lonely, it is here, it is there, it is every where,
I watched through prisms of glass, as my home became history.
Two days have gone, the world where I was, I could see no more,
Just the lifeless miles where no anger, love or hatred will be,
Life in a neutral cold, seeing nothing to comfort a heart that’s sore,
And in ten thousand years I will see my tomorrows destiny.
Taking the hope that in time new life forms might walk with me,
Until then I look and see the black, a void devoid of reality.
In this emptiness, where dreams are made then go for you to see,
To find a home, a corner in the endless, unending infinity.
On the third day I tried to think what work I could have done,
Calling out, asking what will be, asking the dark what was.
Its reply was the cold undead loving hatred of senses not won,
A remorseless calculated inexactitude of a living carcass.
From the spacecraft I’d stare to a globe I’d soon known as home,
A growing speck of light on the horizon of a darkened ball,
Securing a might from the mists that shroud the doubled dome,
Closer ‘til colours breached the mist like a crocheted shawl.
My craft secured on the dark side of the moon on this fourth day,
That flight now over, journey to the earth for flora and fauna,
Sending back reports of the natural resources that I can convey,
Understanding the flowers and animals, not being a mourner.
The term calculated inexactitude was favoured by Winston Churchill. As, when in the houses of parliament it was considered bad form to refer to another politician as a liar, so he would say, ‘they just said a calculated inexactitude’.
© 2011 John H Barnes
We often hear of constant involvement
Of how time and space collide
Where we’re mere whispers of dust in the wind
Compared to the starlight that sails by
So if it evolves as we revolve
Spending our microsecond watching
What does light become?
© 2011 Gareth Wilson
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Are you there, or are you not?
A shiny sparkling, tiny dot,
A million, trillion years away,
Burning brightly, who’s to say?
You could have died a week ago,
No-one here will live to know.
Are you there, or will you wait?
To let our children know your fate.
A ball of gasses burning bright,
And in the dark, you give us light.
If you do still grace the sky,
When people in outer space do fly,
Then keep them safe, I ask please do,
In this my little prayer to you.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
I wrote this poem three days before my fourteenth birthday. I know this because I dated the piece of paper I wrote it on and somehow I have managed to keep it and find it when I needed it after thirteen years.
I resisted changing the line about burning gasses to include the word plasma.
© 1998, 2011 Chrissey Harrison
These poems will be featuring in Great Escapes | Volume 1, our first print and ebook anthology. Check out our books page for details on how we’re funding the book through Kickstarter!