Aurora seeker sits
knees folded,
like a paperclip,
and hands loose
on the dirt
at the edge
of this cliff
that has held others
that watched
for dawn.
Tag / poem
Your Majesty #TuesdayPoetics
Always pointed
in words and pose.
Perfect poise,
perfect response,
perfect timing.
Held yourself
above the rest of us.
My own feet
too leaden.
My words dropped
like iron anchors
through deck
and hull.
Took the ship down
with me.
You reached
or so I thought
when I grasped
for your hand.
You were simply gesturing
to the view beyond.
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There Are Better Things I Could Have Used This Memory Space For #DVersePoets #PoeticsNight
You.
It’s burnt into my memory
that open mouthed gape
swallowing my words,
and the back turned
mid-sentence on an answer
to a question you had asked
only for the slow spin,
arm triangled over your head
as you scratched your scalp,
and those frown scrunched nostrils
somehow still flared
in a state of confusion
when I refused to speak
to a man not facing me.
Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay
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Set Course #DVersePoets #Quadrille
Always just sort of truly set
these ways wobble wonderfully,
or is it woefully?
Uncertain if they’re certain
about the shape
of the course
decided upon,
waited upon,
debated upon.
This is what has been done.
So far…
for now…
Not quite as pictured.
A very quick poem before I head to bed tonight. It was my first night back on the judo mat, so I’ve only just got home, but I didn’t want to miss the Quadrille night. Can’t wait to read the others tomorrow.
(P.S, I almost think this might count as a political poem… huh… not really done one of those before.)
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Metaphorically Speaking – #DVersePoets
You with your oak bark hands
planted on the bank
just before the hill drop
to what is now town.
I could see worlds
still turning in your memory,
as if the clock stopped
in a hundred different places.
I even recognise a few
of the people caught here
in this last place of green
before the concrete and brick.
It is a cruelty to take you
from this bank above town.
It is crueller still to take all this
away.
My mother thinks I should try to write some less heavy poems, and I have been trying, but they all seem to twist into the shadows.
Carol J Forrester 
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