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

THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF POETRY & GRAPHICS...since December 2002

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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

twin-suns

blot the horizon

with auburn rays.

In miasma skies,

the sand-choked air

dams the cityís life.                     


Street-signs

blaze

and call

to victims of

the Citylife;

lithium-bright

against the haze.

And Cyberclubs

line the damaged streets,                           

whilst drug-high flocks

swarm and buzz,

towards the sound.


Desert skies,                                        

stretch

for miles

as burnished ships

scatter

the horizon.                                                     

And silicon-slick hulls                                       

refract the                                                               

sunrays                                                                       

that caramel the sand.                                            

                                                                                 
Solar light

tans the

sienna earth

and warms the

glassy dunes.

The new-moon

twilight

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,

surrenders,

to the ice.

The water,

dead,

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

yesterday.

 

 

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.

 

Spellbound.

Speechless.

 

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

yesterday.

 

 

A Front Seat View

 

The night is indigo satin

slick with

storms.

Lightning sheets the sky,

stark against

the mist.

The wind snatches at

the old birchís

leaves,

and forks sear the bark

rending the

wood.

I am audience to the show,

screened by

glass,

on which I trace my name,

in staccato

strokes.

 

  

Feedback

 

 

Leyowena Witham

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