Echoes of regret weaving a widening
tightening net in my brittle porous psyche
bouncing off unstable walls in the hollow halls
of hurried pocketed memories meant to remain
hidden but that is not a given as I urgently attempt
to suppress decaying regrets doing my best to stay
afloat in my secret sheltered harbour where I am
commander and master electing to sail or drown
in wailing gales of deepening untreated depression
with only my fading reflection as a fellow passenger
to endear to as I have no more trusted confidantes
nor allies to maybe expect a reassuring hug maybe
even just a brief passing touch of support in this
broken moral compass world we now live in, so
I just lie down in an imagined embrace –
My self-esteem in pieces my worth leaking out
as I listen to soothing phantom Whispers…
The Bees are Dead
Fading flowers signalling a worrying neglect
of nature’s gifts to our species but our kind not
that kind to our existential nourishing life-giving
necessities – We just take it for granted to have
continuous uninterrupted access to our culinary
needs but how can we possibly allow a decline
in responsibly tending to our flora and fauna in
our mad race to build the biggest, construct the
tallest, creating the most award winning concrete
jungles, expanding urban megacities whilst
removing nature’s bounty?
Deforestation annihilation the destruction of fauna
Migration to natural kingdoms in which to multiply
and thrive but the bees are dead the flowers wilting
the rivers disappearing our food sources diminishing
due to our irresponsible neglect our insatiable
need to destroy or change the status quo whilst
bowing down to corporate powers puppet shows
guiding our disappearing moral compass steering –
I cry as I yearn for common sense to prevail
but maybe it is too late as the bees are dead…
is a philosopher’s way of saying ‘what flies through the lighted room
between your ears is unknowable to me’. But there I go already
mixing my philosophers and my monks. The point of the black box
is that it is lightless from the outside looking in, and I can’t ever imagine
being so closed down that no face held a candle up to the eyes – no
lambent glow left flickering in the window
to guide the traveller home, to indicate a hearth to share.
So I’m still thinking about all of you as rooms,
and inside the conservatory that I am, there are petals
all over the floor. A bird rushed through the hydrangeas
I keep in here just yesterday, and now all the soft colours we wrap
our children tightly with, those same ones that label
the boxes before we can philosophise or parable at all,
are drifting deep. And maybe my subconscious chose those flowers
for this room because they’re a litmus.
Don’t you want to see what’s going on
underneath in the dark, where all the growing really happens –
who’s hurting acid, who’s blanding base. Can’t you see
that the light beacons in and out
through bird-shaped holes in the walls, and if you look
at a person without thinking about boxes
sometimes you find a garden
telling you what it needs the most.
weary lawn goes back to work:
Breath of spring wind
caressing my skin with fingers
cooler than water.
Feeling you so close.
Am I alone with you now,
or just by myself?
stops my heart for a moment:
your voice in my ear.
“Weeping may last for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” -Ps. 30:5
Petals fall from
Dirt roads and
Brittle dry grass.
The spring wind
That carries the
Scent of the years,
Becomes memory and
Frees the senses to
Rise with the moon.
Night is relief,
Depth, release –
Bringing forth new.
As I birth, so I draw
this first breath
through my reflection,
no features yet.
No memory to spoil.
ripple the fluid
that holds all,
in divine tension.
To wonder aloud,
alone and pointless,
as if in
a dream or yet now
Like Alice pulled,
then stretched long.
From the mirror
to the looking glass room.
As her old times cling
of her left behind world.
Once stories and
dreams ran freely,
before language gripped
and took our sight.
Wondering at last,
what if, and
will the dream
The remnants lie in
a leaf that blows
A thing that cannot be,
a dream detection.
©️ Dai Fry 28th May 2020.
this is not confetti
not a wedding for these are not permitted
we cannot see each other face to face yet
we must live alone on lockdown
I remember growing an herb garden in your mother’s garden, and one
morning, finding white feathers. You told me, then, angels were near,
and I thought about every incremental – angels and God, and small
hands digging the cold earth, the rose bush, and the clay, and every
forgotten car park, walked between the sign posts, faded in long grass.
Once stood in a puddle of water, and looking up at the blue sky, saw
the blue holding something out of place, the motions of white feathers.
Is looking in the mirror
To see a formless face
Who am I
To think I am someone
In a world that cares not
But I desire
To be seen if only by
Just a few
Perhaps then the image
In the mirror
Becomes the person
I can believe in
-Carrie Anne Golden
the petals of a flower
expressionless without wrinkles
crisps in the sun,
laughter lines increase
sheds colourful skin after skin,
gusts make them wings,
energy returns to the bulb
There is always next year.
Brittle dry grass.
Don’t you want to see what’s going on.
There is always next year.
Bios and Links
Here is my interview of Alex:
or on Facebook: @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry
-Carrie Ann Golden
-sonja benskin mesher
born , Bournemouth.
lives and works in North Wales
as an independent artist
words have not come easily. I draw on experience, remember and write. speak of a small life’.
The work has been in solo exhibitions through Wales and England, and in selected and solo worldwide.
Much of the work is now in both private, and public collections, and has been featured in several television documentaries, radio programmes and magazines.
Here is my interview of sonja benskin mesher:
Here is my 2020 interview of her:
Here is my interview of Don Beukes:
Audio/Visual. @IntPoetryCircle #InternationalPoetryCircle Twitter
is a lost kiwi, now living on a Scottish island. She has been making up stories and poems for as long as she can remember. Her first volume of poetry, The Knitted Curiosity Cabinet, won the Brit Writers Award for poetry in 2012. She loves her job, running a small public library, and has published four novels and a book of short stories. Twitter handle: @alayanabeth
Here is my interview of James Knight: