Sentinel Poetry (Online) #44  


ISSN 1479-425X Editor: Amatoritsero Ede                                                            


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Molara Wood


Suicide Notes



My lover is dead

The will is gone from me

This being so may I flow

With the river wherever it goes.



Bola jumped off the bridge

             and went splat

A tragedy sprung

             from a fourteenth floor flat

Where entwined with another

             a man sat

Whose heart to Bola

             could not be had.




Bills, pills on window sills

beg you to jump, jump

to the hills,

to bliss.


A skyscraper this isn't

you'd only break a leg

not the strong


of your heart's spring.


Bag Lady



Bag lady with sackfuls of regret

Rolled in a knapsack, heaved, hauled

As the mollusc bears around its home.


She moves as with feelers, unseeing

Eyes in rituals of avoidance, noses up

Repelled by a sight they would not see.


 Woman to whom things have been done

Sacrificial wearer of scars, bearer of losses

Walking wounded from battles long lost.



Bag lady with sackfuls of regret

Tucked deep in under-eye pouches

Stuffed down the protuberant tum.


Beaten to a pulp by lifes fictions

Hers is the joy of a wandering haze

A happy face on lifes sad street.


She walks, magnificent as Monroe

Dark as Alek, regal as Iman - owning

Nothing, she claims ownership still.


At peace with her many loads, knowing

If you must own nothing, own your regrets



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