The ground was hot,

rubber melting hot

of the rainbow taxis.

Softened by a sticky smog,

the city fought the sky.

Where she slept,

shoes side by side

on the pavement.

No pillow,

but hands soft

from massage oils.

Life moved,

paid no attention,

and I wondered,

does she dream,

did she feel me

walk through?

Here spiritualism

is masked

by the roar of lights,

the smell of exhausts,

thick as the feathers

of ostrich-plumed men,

criss-cross dressers


And I jumped.

From their silver

spangled platforms,

into experience.

Girl in a Pool Bar

Blue-black hair

frames eyes.

Full lips

frequently licked

over – and over

the whitest of teeth.

She watches;

counting time,

counting drinks.

A play of hands

cover the smile,

shade a laugh

as her body


towards him.

Hard to see

any blush;

easy to watch

the scorpion tattoo


as her fingers tease,

touch his face.


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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