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Looming
This year, high summer has cast a tidal wave of rhetorical bullshit. We swim in an ocean of it. It’s smeared over every beach, masking the sweet scent of sunscreen with its bitter stink until nothing’s left of August’s decadence. Sunny holidays disappear into autumn shadows, night falls far too soon, and the stench of decomposed promises cannot be masked by rotting leaves and wood smoke. Looming…
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Bodies
Our bodies unfurl and then curl into each other under night’s cover. We are waves in motion on an inky ocean or sand-blown stones hidden in a desert’s undertones. We are intertwined limbs, hearts, souls and minds, dancing in the dark until we spark – stars falling in the empty sky of morning.
Kim M. Russell, 13th August 2019
Image found on Pinterest
My response to dVerse Poets Pub Poetics: Lost…
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Woken by a Summer Night
Woken by a Summer Night
White hot lightning flashes through the blinds, a celestial photographer illuminating crumpled sheets twisted with the lack of sleep. Fiddling with volume control, clouds amplify and dull thunder’s rock and roll, rattling roof tiles and wooden blinds like xylophones. Beside the bed, a glass of tepid water whirlpools with vibrations.
Kim M. Russell, 30th July 2019
My response to dVerse Poets Pub…
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Morning Shift
Together we rise, the bees and I; they fill the drowsy garden with their resonance.
A patchwork of shadow among green lungs transforms into a smoky meadow of seeding grass and flowers, patches of shifting light bound together by cobwebs and the hum of bees.
Kim M. Russell, 23rd July 2019
Image found on 123RF
My response to dVerse Poets Pub Poetics: Movement, also linked to Imaginary Garden with…
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From the steps at city hall, the market square resembles a tin of sweet wrappers, brightly striped in sunshine and glistening in rain. A walk between the stalls makes me sea-sick: I roll down the lurching incline, a sometime sailor, bantering with Norwich traders over fresh fruit, fish and flowers; exotic spices, eggs and cheese; candles and wicker baskets; belts, boots, buckles and shoes. I follow in the footsteps of medieval men and women. “Aryorite?” a familiar greeting that hasn’t changed in centuries, brought up-to-date with pop music blaring from a stall selling CDs.
Kim M. Russell, 11th June 2019
My response to dVerse Poets Pub Poetics: To market, to market! also linked to Imaginary Garden with Real Toads Tuesday Platform
Sarah is our host this Tuesday and she wants to go to the market with us. She asks if there’s anything more evocative of a place than its market. She says that there’s something wonderful about buying a pasty from the woman who baked it; or a punnet of berries from the farmers that grew them; or a taste of cheese by the man who created it, or a smear of chutney from the cook.
Like Sarah, we have a small market in our local town. We also have the famous covered market in Norwich, which I love to visit whenever I go ‘up city’, as they say around here.
Sarah would like us to write poems that convey the feel of the market somehow – the goods on offer, the people selling and buying, the smells, the tastes, the sounds. She tells us to let our poetry run free!
Eggs and Other Things in Your Basket From the steps at city hall, the market square resembles a tin of sweet wrappers, brightly striped in sunshine…
One Fine Day
There’s a sparkling space between orchestra and clear soprano voice, a tragic butterfly in a bell jar, bright wings shimmering before she’s pinned.
Puccini’s signature violins swirl and an incidental flute curls, a ship’s smoke on the far horizon, as Cio-Cio-San’s dream spills: one fine day, she’ll see Pinkerton climbing up the hill.
The voice, clear as crystal, at first wavers, vulnerable, and…
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Only a Dream
She longs for clandestine meetings in the middle of the night; moonlit, shadow-filled secret trysts are always fleeting. She’s left crying for more substance and feeling dissatisfied with the hoots and screams of owls, the cobweb caresses of the ghosts in the corner arousing only small emotions – compared to the great love of which she dreams.
Kim M. Russell, 9th April 2019
The Sleeping Beauty –…
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Humming into the Wind
Humming into the Wind
Through sullen branches of ancestry, a deadened wind soughs a song of loss. Straggling souls skim the trees in skeins towards an ancient rookery to caw themselves to sleep. They echo through insomnolent dreams, but silvered by moonlit poetry I hum against the windy wings, through a mouthful of mouldering leaves, and the succubi of one who nightly grieves.
Kim M. Russell, 19th March 2019
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