Author: Carol J Forrester

End Of The Garden #DVersePoets

There are no apples left for picking, only leaves caught up in the sunlight and a slow breeze passing through. Back between my molars sticks a pip that my tongue cannot pry loose no matter the shapes it twists, the times it risks my bite. A sparrow in the branches sings, tells me there are more trees, more apples, but they are behind walls, and gates, and men with bright black guns. They tell people which trees are good, which ones are bad. It doesn’t matter about the apples so much, it’s more about the hands.

Honeysuckle Wife #DVersePoetics

Cut me off at the ankles or so you said, stood astride my stump, saw grinned. ‘Not so pretty now are we’ either of us.   Spent the winter finding my roots, you brought on your hot house girls throwing out the deadheads before they even had chance to wilt.   Spring freshened up all that toughening from too many years the same. Found new shoots moving upwards, more bend, less bark to my bite.   Summer and I redecorated it all, cloaked myself in colour, announced my presence, my survival. Dared you to try cutting me down again.  

Beltech Mortuary #DVersePoets #Prosery

Upstairs a door slammed. Then another, and another, until finally the cast iron monstrosity at the top of the stairs shuddered open. ‘Quickly now grab me a jar!’ The jumped the last three steps. Ellsmore jolted awake and darted for the draining board. He fumbled with the jars but turned in time. The surgeon eased his hands over the open mouth and opened them slowly. It thunked against the glass. ‘Real bad ‘un this one,’ said the surgeon and wiped his hands on his trousers. Ellsmore closed the jar. The thing shivered. ‘What is it?’ The surgeon scowled. ‘There are moments caught between heart beats. They make us, us. This one, made a very, very, bad man.’ Ellsmore swallowed thickly. ‘If you cut it out, does that make him a good man?’ ‘Well that depends.’ ‘On what?’ ‘On the moments I didn’t cut out.’ ‘

A Pygmalion Girl #WeekendWritingPrompt

Why do that to yourself? Play around with perfection, even if it was only skin deep, and the smoothness of these curves turned your stomach at night, when dusk settles its hands either side of your hips, presses into the grooves where his tools worked you into beauty. Mounted you his sculpture for all men to see. Do you not appreciate how his love made you into a woman worth seeing?

Leftovers #DVersePoetics

If I was my mother, and you were a horse, I would not wrap the lead into my fist as we walk the track with their ruined nissan huts patch up by ivy, so we can’t see through the hollow sockets of broken windows to the emptiness inside, always emptiness inside, and always me with a fist of lead to draw you closer to heel in case the emptiness is not what it seems.