Reblogs – Estelle Deshon (on The Poetry Bar) & Carolyn Crossley

It seems to me someone crossed the line…

The Line by Estelle Deson

There is a line I live above,
A thin veneer of trust and love,
To cross that line; I dare not,
Beyond where faith and fear fight,
There is a blot,
All is dark; black as night,
And light penetrates not so far,
As your heart.

So above the line I live,
And I give…and give… and give…

But I too have a line,
It is the line I place on you,
It is there… but yet,
I know not where,
It is my bottom line.
But I will know,
When it’s been violated,
When power and control can no longer be tolerated.

Though I absorb and yield and hold,
I feel my heart growing cold.

But that final violation,
I will know,
When your cruel words,
Mark their tender blow,
When you strike,
And destroy my very core,
Then will I know I can take no more,
My Darling, I will close the door.

The Daily Haiku 11/12/21 by Carolyn Crossley

come let me love you, 
let me love you again near, far, 
we see the same stars 
 
we are twin flames that 
burn with passion, soulmates too 
so why are we apart 

In The Air

Inspired by Reena’s Exploration Challenge #234 & Eugenia’s Weekly Prompt – Morning Fog

like the morning fog rolling in
this space between us
dampens the tonal quality of expression

what once was a volume-filled environment
has become silence weighted down
conversation consists of minor and
inconsequential snippets of banal noise

i yearn for spontaneous outbursts
thoughtful and articulated utterances
to spark a signal of trust again

make this isolation go away
make the air around us breathable again
communicate depth and some meaning
into this lackluster connection

Carotid Wine

Redux

She’d had enough.

His end was near, didn’t know it though. He was clueless.

Her knuckles tightened around the elegantly shaped wine glass. Instinct and rage fueled the glass crashing into the side of the table. Only one crescent-shaped shard fell away.

It was the perfect edge to damage a pulsing artery.

She gracefully, furiously, lunged for the side of his throat. His vital organ cut wide-open. A rhythmic stream began pumping out, gushing blood down and out over his body. With stunned horror, he gripped his throat to stop the bleeding.

She watched, fascinated, as he was dying.

Ivor Steven

The Sum is One

One
Sky above
Five oceans bind us
The one air we breathe comes from
Trees

Behind The Stone

When looking for home 
If you roll away the stone 
You won’t be alone 

Lost For Words 

lost worlds 
lost wars 
lost objectives 
lost subjects
lost children                        

Cold Nights

Empty, I return unsold
The sheets are cold
No crease to hold
Nor unfold

~~~

Ivor Steven was an Industrial Chemist, then a Plumber, now retired, and has been writing poetry for 19 years. He has had numerous poems published in anthologies and online magazines. He is an active member of the Geelong Writers Inc. (Australia), he is a team member/barista with the online magazine Go Dog Go Cafe (America), and a writer with the Coffee House Writers magazine (America). You can read more of his work on his blog – Ivor.Plumber/Poet. Ivor was originally featured on The Short of It on March 4th.

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Joni Caggiano

Sadness Moans

shooting pain lurches like a stranger in the blackest night
where monsters live releasing their copies, swarming past, out of sight

jealousy walks on rugged stones stealing from the gifted
holding hands of small cactus plants until the desert sands are shifted

behind their peering eyes a Judas runs to throw a stone
whiffs of his betrayal, climbing to the top of the field, I hear his moan

trust a blanket, with a thousand promises, tickling me
deceit, painful rubbing of an alligator’s bony plates, I run to a forest tree

a stranger in this house of horrors, yet I have to live
stealing glances, taking chances, as I taste the bitter love I cannot give

Luna Moth and Her Lover

intense eyes open imaginary shutters
her green wings, the luna moth flutters
she mates once has no mouth, dies, lays eggs in wooded covers

would I give my life for one more night
knowing death would be my one last flight
with you, my darling, keeper, and lover of my heart, I just might

Rumor Damage

rumor is a spineless seed dipped in fertile shadow dirt
that multiplies and causes pain and unexpected hurt

silence, a bed partner that takes but never gives back
as a man tells a buddy how easy he got her in the sack

black spots jump off potatoes and out of a perfect dish
surviving boiling water and a blemish on an ideal wish

misfortune of a hammer that averted a four-inch nail
a hungry man begs for food and becomes a vulgar tail

her legs jump from flower to flower, hoping for a treat
for sleeping alone with her legs and scheming little feet

jealousy and deceit was the cause of their blue demise
scissors cut paper, and true words, well – their end is no surprise

Uncle’s House

memories grow roots that spring up like dandelions on a freshly mowed lawn
hiding among floating clouds, unwanted hands, or those thin leafless limbs
the taste of cigars on lips or the slimy feel of uncles’ probing thick tongue
he took me to church, like to watch me dance and listen when I sang hymns

lots of summer afternoons, I sat for hours while the birds sang songs to God
his lap was big, and it felt good to have someone to care what I liked to do
summer days remind me of candy, fishing, and rum bottles hiding everywhere
the smell of marigolds or that living room and wiggling to get away from you

Mermaid’s Lost Love

seaweed, green, like my eyes, harbor me in this woeful abyss
waning as my golden blueish scales morph into blackness
shadow life, and inquisitiveness died and bled the colors of the
Bolivian orange-red sunset, which calls to your land’s hummingbirds
as their darting ceased, when my only child died not far from your brown banks

caught in a mile-long fishnet with a dolphin, and sea turtle friends
a triangle of death as I watched her die slowly as I tore my fingers
trying to save my little mermaid child as my blue tears floated skyward
a mere full moon later my merman swam into a black pool of thickness
unable to swim, black death covering his scales, cocooned as he died a painful death

I visit a river that has ancient trees with long gray hair, our family knew
my sorrow theirs, for they would clap as we would sing our odes
large white stones for basking, close to flowers that smell of love, and hope
braiding the morning glories, red swamp hibiscus, and white gardenias
into black hair as reminders of the lifeless and those that will follow

our world under and above the sea is dying from white man’s greed
regret and sorrowfulness breaks my heart into pieces
soon cut into ribbons like the seaweed I will die from sorrow
for no longer do I wish to see the sunrise, no, not one more tomorrow

Old News Is Not Old News

whites of fearsome eyes looking up from blood-soaked boards
black bodies stretched naked, branded, and shackled to floors
fifty women drowning overboard that enslaver’s work quickly done
another coast, heavily greased black muscles, glimmer in the sun
2021 computers on –  I listen while today’s news on a video rolls
spinning lies another bright young man died as this story unfolds
choked, gaged, sprayed, or flayed, old news nothing fresh today
sadness is killing me daily, as I think, what will their mothers say
another way of killing folks instead of hanging on a hoary oak tree
black people want to live their lives, be respected, and to be free
I am sick and tired, of being sick and tired, of the filthy shocking pace
of how white men keep eradicating people, not included in their race

~~~

Joni’s blog is Rum and Robots. Her national and international publications can be found here: https://the-inner-child.com/publications/. She is a surviving Adult Child of Alcoholics. Joni is a retired nurse and paralegal. Since the age of six, she has been writing songs and poetry. Joni is an avid environmental advocate. She was first featured on The Short of It in December 2020, and her work was published in the first anthology – The Sound of Brilliance.

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Long-Suffering

not another next
i do believe my mass will implode
what on earth have i done to deserve this
why must my heart be torn apart in another war
only to once again reject a connection made
the color of beaten love
cloud on my face
oh, to kill the ensuing anxiety and suffering 

yet, i will search the trenches of my heart made by you 
to find the ability to forgive
admit
it’s an unreasonable ask

Go check out Sadje’s Sunday Poser – Great question and wonderful responses! This piece reflects what so many of us have done – kept on trying and trying, even in the face of no resolution.

Freya Pickard

Abyss

shriek into the void
dark shadows shatter, dissolve
still empty inside

alone in abyss
my screams no longer echo
finally absorbed

a soul-touching croon
expands to vast crescendo
calls me back to life

Alive

clasped closely
– I do not wish to escape
held by darkness
– his cold embrace, a refuge
he lives
– because of my blood
I am not yet dead
– he needs me alive

Victim

docile, I submit
ecstasy, then sudden pain
give myself freely

moonlit muscles enfold me
metallic kisses drown me

you cannot live without me
I need you to sustain me

what have you woken
in the embers of my soul –
dark flame of your heart

Attitude

with an
attitude as
bad as my boots, I strut,
swagger and sneer – untouchable
bite me!
killing for sheer adrenaline
no emotion this side
of death; why should
I care?

Suicide

no one hears me
therefore I do not exist
pale ghost in shadow

I step out into sunlight
erupt in blaze of glory

~~~

Freya Pickard is the author of The Kaerling series, an epic fantasy. She writes mainly fantasy tales and creates poetry in order to rest the prose side of her brain. She finds her inspiration in the ocean, beautifully written books, and vinyl music (particularly heavy metal and rock). Freya was featured twice in The Short of ItMay 2020 and October 2020. Her piece, Sailing, featured in the first anthology – was selected for the Pushcart Prize.

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