Jacob’s Angel

March 31, 2013 at 11:56 am (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

In the Mersey is an angel who is twisting to her beat.
Blown far off heaven’s dance floor, all his holy plans awry,
the angel arches, smiles and twisting, feels the sun beneath his feet.
Her jilted history knocked and settling into awful grim defeat,
the river lashes hard on northern shores to stick and stay.
In the Mersey is an angel who is twisting to her beat.
The Mersey’s bitter kiss holds men to anchor in the deep,
she calls them home but falsely with her widow’s waves of grey.
The angel arches, smiles and twisting, feels the sun beneath his feet.
So many ardent loves have lost their head to her entreat,
and lately found, they stiffly swim their honey’s moon away.
In the Mersey is an angel who is twisting to her beat.
As the angel dips his blessed arms, to caress her winter sweet,
she rains her blows and wraps her sturdy thighs about his waist;
the angel arches, smiles and twisting, feels the sun beneath his feet.
And still cursing broken promises, she leans into his weight
as Liver birds look discreetly on, to flit another day.
In the Mersey is an angel who is twisting to her beat;
the angel arches, smiles and twisting, feels the sun beneath his feet.

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PenDragons

March 27, 2013 at 8:19 am (literature, Poems, poetry, Recognition) (, , , , , , , )

 Dedicated to my circle of delicious poets: John Etheridge (http://bookofpain.wordpress.com), Elizabeth Cook (http://serialoutlet.wordpress.com) and Jordan Roe (http://tierceandhum.wordpress.com)
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Working virtually
the PenDragons are poetry’s
rough hewn ships on the tide of life
casting inky anchors deep, 
diving minds for matter,
sifting happenings for collateral
worthy of our keep.
 
We make no promises
seaweed catches on our bows
best intentions dashed
by errant storm, becalmed
by sleeping muse,
yet still compelled, we push
through ode and villanelle
divining subtle truths.

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Lily

March 16, 2013 at 5:53 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

From this stricken bridge, our pickled Lily
is a ragged and a snarling twig
stuck fast between grey stones.
Whilst all around
cross Eddies feud and weave,
she brooks her gall, suspended.
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Who knows, should snagged forgiveness
truly rip and run again,
the river, reprieved, may turn to smile,
and Lily’s spoiled white lips
would twist and split: a pretty boat.
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Her veil, pulled low to save that petalled face,
could raise into a hopeful sail
and pistilled spirit bend and dip
to fast row Lily, blemished but aglow,
to steep her days without bondage and regret
in turbulent regatta.

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The Spirit of Accord

March 5, 2013 at 10:47 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Conjoined by circumstance, we were as twins,

collective fate upon respective dials;

you docked your pirate ship inside my lines

and blocked me with uncompromising sails.

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To square the round we drew our swords to fight,

inflicting wrath on anchored minds with spears;

decisions ground with sharp wit edged with spite,

in altercation boxed the other’s ears.

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In case you tried to sail I slung my stones,

and what I strove to build you ran to spoil;

you flared your nostrils, stamped upon my bones,

I danced on pins to pitch my burning oil.

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You curdled coffee with your sour grapes,

my rancid comments rattled down our time;

but now you’re gone I miss our fierce debates,

it seems as though your voice was also mine.

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