Memories and Mush

I pause at your picture,

trace a finger over flat contours.

Melancholy names my mood.

Books do not entertain,

music is torn.

I wish

for a seroxat fix

where angles are softer

and corners blur,


I smile to hear your voice,

although mind-made,

and distant

like your touch.




St. Michael's

She sits in the cemetery, watching wasps

knowing they will soon sting.

But today she can look at the ancient yews,

feel safe.

Maybe it's granite and black slate,

split by roots.

Maybe it's dead holly and clinging ivy

that allows the air about to rest

in a warm embrace,

then drift with a waft of everyday.

And each time she visits, it is hers.



On the night of high cloud,

buzzards ride warm thermals.

Narapho ignites a sceptre of stars

and God shields his eyes.

Old women hold hands, pray for rain.

Men kiss at the river mouth, unborn shift.

Movement wakes a heaviness tired of waiting.

Smoothing ripples of taut belly skin,

legs bound, she cries in layers.

Each wave blurs,

carries her beyond willingness,

beyond the stubbornness of woman.

Up, up towards the buzzards

and the magic of this special night.

Always hopeful for the harvest,

ever hopeful for the children.

Narapho opens his arms.

Stella Jones lives on the Wirral in the UK, and is married with two grown sons. She has been writing poetry for about twelve years and is a regular performer on the open mike scene. She has co-miked poetry nights with the aim of encouraging new and established poets to perform before an audience. Stella has been involved with the Wirral Festival of Firsts and other poetry events which bring the world of poetry to the public. She has been lucky enough to be published by a variety of magazines and her work appears in several anthologies. She has also enjoyed some success in poetry competitions. At present Stella is discovering the delights of tanka.

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