Down the corridor, comes a scream Was it physical pain or the horror of finally learning the way this game is turning They took your clothes gave you a gown there was nothing to do but lay right down Now, the machine breathes for you hung by a thread and leaving soon Faint flashes behind tired eyelids recalled moments from a busy life; the night … Continue reading “Renee By A Thread” by Tom Alexander.
Please participate in this wonderful anthology project by Carolyn Cordon. Perspectives are needed, especially from fellow writers, or teachers and doctors on how the current pandemic is impacting you or the world. I had an idea, an excellent and caring idea, one that would, or at least could, bring hope and understanding to many others. It was an idea for a … Sometimes Life Intrudes Continue reading Sometimes Life Intrudes
A/N: Another piece I wrote for an instrumental I created on Soundcloud. Check it out here. Early blooms rise at six axed in pale winter, a tumor of silence; in the white blossoms, fresh snow falls the night paradise lost into the womb and raid of memory, forgotten in the mist we entreat. A temporal zone, this language I do not understand, blunt mind, indifference, … Continue reading Deadzone.
mauvaises terres. I. The Old Line. We drink red tea in the winter and summer by the pale, ocean shore with rain feeding on the sunlight with coffee beans, and spoke in broken languages to each other originating from your father in different countries of Europe, he speaks almost a dozen languages. You wished he taught you more, but as we speak, the dog sits … Continue reading mauvaises terres.
the waves in the dying of the dark by frozen, alluring dreams when you’ve never dreamt unsheathed upon each layer of rock that bleeds out by daylight where we see the blood drift, sliced in a sleepwalking geyser the dispensation of mid-summer, choked upon the shoreline ‘where have you been?’ I say, ’nowhere. It could be winter for all we had known, roasted upon the … Continue reading The tree of apricot.
A leaf falls Into the monsoon shadows. I turn by the grazed branches Trembling by the dark windows Into the blustering Of frost and the muzzled crystals that lay Into the black linen on the ground. We are alone in the patters of wind, Hear; each turn of the rock, And see our hands Restless into the dark tides Beyond the heart of a foggy … Continue reading Ghost street.
Written for the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #63 “It is the end of the world,” someone chokes; there is a lull. Stockpiling food for twenty years and toilet paper rolls, But we’re all out—what do we do Go out to Walmart, brawl with others like a zoo; Then leave empty handed—outside, someone is selling them $100 per half roll! © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Continue reading End of the world.