a story is a boulder, rough and
calloused;
big as a garage.
but if one has the patience
he can chip away
with a small hammer and chisel
til' he reaches the middle
where the infant diamond sleeps -
polish it,
then hold it to the sunlight;
give birth to The Poem.
(Image by Pandalicious Art.)
five hours now, and counting
i notice that you left your wedding ring
sitting patiently on the kitchen bench - naked,
the happilyeverafter engraved on the interior
left cold and out of place
beside tomorrow's shopping list.
did you simply forget it
amidst the bills, burnt toast
and five-minutes-til-the-six-o'clock-bus?
is it that you find it uncomfortable
to have your finger bound in such a way
all day? or is it
a proclamation of your release
from bindings of a different kind
Images by Nada Zekovic, vee is for violeta, McBecca09.
snapping and sucking at my fingertips
like a small child, or animal,
asking to be fed
but it is only Loneliness again,
creeping from behind its April veil
and making itself known to me, again.
i watch a single homing pigeon make tracks over the rooftops
and i wish, that like a homing bird,
i could flit from one rooftop to the next
without pausing to reflect, or dwell
on rooftops gone, and passed -
or have the comforting knowledge that
i was headed to a better place, a home
but i am already there, wings weary
and as the winter months draw near
it feels a stranger to me.
the muscle beneath my right eye
has been twitching for three days now.
it's as though it's been collecting baggage
that pulls it ever closer to the ground,
and finally - it has become too heavy to carry.
it's a sign of fatigue
they say/according to/apparently -
but i think it's something more sinister than that,
an ever-reminder of my indignity
my animal instinct, and my fragile mortality
each quivering jerk, each staccato snare
ripples across my face like a flailing
fish, in a pond -
is it dancing? is it dying?
is it shuddering before crying?
its message is unclear, but judging by its persistence -
i think it might be important.
Ruby Tuesday is now open to submissions - one day in, and some incredible images are already starting to appear. Post photos to the flickr group at http://www.flickr.com/groups/rubytuesdaytheblog/, or submit pieces of poetry/ short prose to rubytuesdaytheblog@hotmail.com
are bony fingers
that will grab at your ankles, and trap you.
these streets
that you've always walked with somebody else -
this one stroked the palm of your hand, and
that one rubbed the small of your back
talking wild of hegel and hume
and the other, was always too preoccupied
to notice you
try not to trip over tangles of shedidwhat
a wisp of cotton, tied toetotoetotoe
crisscrosed and quivering, humming
with the whispers of the waiting -
one small tug, one slip of the tongue
and they'll be tossing your entrails back and forth
over the garden fence, the next morning.
you have been warned.
polly put the kettle on is an eclectic online zine dedicated to contemporary poetry and photography, with a vintage feel. They are always open to submissions. http://www.pollyputthekettleonzine.blogspot.com/
the pink, swollen flesh beneath my fingernails
throbs
as i gnaw, wrong and clench
creating possible dialogues between us
a playwright, all fantasy
for whom
the words, so sweet, so perfectly crafted
only seconds previous
become sour as they touch the air;
or swoop from my grasp entirely
like a dandelion seed
dancing upon the breeze,
taunting