Sentinel Poetry (Online) #59 ISSN 1479-425X


Frontpage l Past Issues l Submissions l Home



November 2007 l POETRY


Leyowena Witham



Epsilon 12


By night

the city lights,

like fireflies

flicker against the dusk.

In hollow skies

the moon-leeched dark              

spills into sun-kissed eyes.         

By day


blot the horizon

with auburn rays.

In miasma skies,

the sand-choked air

dams the cityís life.                     



and call

to victims of

the Citylife;


against the haze.

And Cyberclubs

line the damaged streets,                           

whilst drug-high flocks

swarm and buzz,

towards the sound.

Desert skies,                                        


for miles

as burnished ships


the horizon.                                                     

And silicon-slick hulls                                       

refract the                                                               


that caramel the sand.                                            

Solar light

tans the

sienna earth

and warms the

glassy dunes.

The new-moon


brings out

the nightlife

where a million minds

taste their highs

and beg for rain.



Dead Gardens


The dusk is crying;

it weeps upon me;.

The night settles

draping a boreal blanket

over the gloom,

scathing the dark.

The sky bleeds into the cold;

frozen speculums

seep across the lake

as it succumbs,


to the ice.

The water,


mimics me;

my sanity reflected

as I stare beneath.

The fractured ice warps my face

and shards of frosted glass

mirror my eyes,

smudged with black kohl tears.

Ashen blooms

house thorns that bite;

my balled fist,

cries blood,

stark against the winter sheen.

With dead petals

I play the game

and the rose says you love me.

They fall upon the glaze

with a peculiar grace

as I scatter them;

just like your ashes




Sequined Slippers


Shadows cast by the lanterns

stage a drama;

shades of memories past,

which dance within my gaze as the

lustrous veil shimmers on my skin.

The scintillating light

from sequins sewn into the muslin;

a thousand-and-one mirrors

through which I see my suitors.


Lust veils their eyes

as the mesh masks my own,

watching, yearning, as I move,

swaying, twisting with the beat,

boom-tuc-a-boom, doom-tuc-a-doom:

the pace of my heart;

the vivacious

rhythm of skin against skin.

The pulse of the drums

 seep into my soles.

The satin slippers,

animated in this breathing fresco,

take the lead from me,

guiding my feet as though on glass.
A hypnotic sandstorm;

elegance shimmering into infinity.

These slippers know the way

into the hearts of men.


Cerulean slippers;

azure beacons held out

to the sea of faces,

they guide me through

the treacherous moves,

until safety comes in their encore.

A magic carpet beneath my feet.

Their enchantment cast,

my suitors silenced.





Silken veils weave a charm

around my body;

a shroud of sensual mystery,

which all men

yearn to reveal.



The Oak Tree


Your voice soothes away

the winter chill,

and for us itís fall again:

the oaks shudder

in the breeze

dropping gilded

leaves at our feet,

whist you pull me down

into auburn mounds,

pretty dead leaves liven

my chestnut length

as you crown me with ivy.

Now frosted leaves

attract the sun

and Decemberís breath

has veiled the sky.

My hand is warm in yours;

a glove big enough for two.

Autumn is dead

though the memory

survives, immortalised in bark

and itís as though we carved it




A Front Seat View


The night is indigo satin

slick with


Lightning sheets the sky,

stark against

the mist.

The wind snatches at

the old birchís


and forks sear the bark

rending the


I am audience to the show,

screened by


on which I trace my name,

in staccato







Leyowena Witham

Frontpage l Previous Page l Next Page



Last updated on 11/11/07 Site copyright Sentinel Poetry Movement. Magazine design & layout by Nnorom Azuonye.

Creative writing & graphics © 2007 The writers and artists. All rights reserved.

Readers since November 11, 2007