#poetry and #shortstory writer work in anthologies from Pure Slush, part of @bequempublishing poetry pamphlet ‘A Gracious Month’ now available on Amazon
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ALT I Turn The Key and hear the tumblers of the mist rotating, their footsteps resound grasp and press down on its lever to open the clouds of the door. The thin is worlds between so through bodies easily pass energy steam boils sky. Their walls are not my walls. Briefly open my headspace to ancestors taking a stroll through change and changes. Past is a wheel always half buried.
ALT poem His twig legs, whip-swing loose, on the horizontal top part of the street lamp, hands bookending his novella spine and you don’t want to look, but it's inevitable, the morbid fascination drawing your eyes towards the darkness atop the light. It appears that the vertical post holding that hawking moon has split down the middle, until your eyes adjust lie to truth. The second shaft is his unfurled, totem tongue. You shock shake, like a paper doll edging away from Edward Scissorhands, but at the same time,wondering what it was like to be Kim in that Tim Burton story.
ALT Everywhere, Nowhere Ghosts do wait in wardrobes as an array of sheer-draped hangers, and it’s always their decision which one of them will be worn; wander out too from under beds: just thin sheets pulled over our fidgeting histories. In the blurry early morning park, the same yellow running-vest of a dead neighbour, seen: his difficult first steps becoming less local; memories mutter constantly like resentful but still unshakable teenagers. Once, attended a burial where mourners were outnumbered by overhanging crows: wailing hysterically instead of muted us, as if cries from another dimension or something more experienced in the near Middle East. Julian Cason
ALT HUNTER’S MOON The only thing I am hunting is you. There is no secret, no real stealth. I am blatant in my looking. I love your light as the darkness says it is creeping in. I am holding you in reverence as your circle fills and I find you near my horizon and then high above me.
ALT Making Time Dreamt am placed in a pre-war clock factory, all tan overalls hovering over optimistic springs and quietly chatting cogs; rules state you wear no watch, so each of us holds our own time. The ticks and the tocks arrive in feral packs, gradually brought to heel by attentive circling hands; the very best trained allowed their tail of a mildly-friendly wagging pendulum. Julian Cason
ALT Three Thoughts Leafed-trees shiver without obvious weather. Bat’s hokey-cokey flying requires breathalysing. Rivers are both coffin and cortège for raindrops. Julian Cason
ALT Micro poem about Halloween
ALT Cape Cornwall Calling All the white horses gather to race before dawn empties— foam-flanked, spray-manes flaring, thundering through valerian, sea-shale silver.
