Work from some of my subscribers
I invited subscribers to send me something to share here...
from Jonty Pennington-Twist
Swimming Photos (1979 – 2020)
Afloat, Courtesy of gifted breath Soft focus, No such thing as future…
Limbs, Yet to learn the dance White blond, Whispered to by urges…
Awkward, Hungry for tattoos and muscle Sex Pistol sneer, Unkissed lips…
Wild, Fleeing truths by now Narcotic undertows In midnight waters…
Plateaued, Haunted by a middle distance Teaching her to dive And myself to hold things in
from Elizabeth Bostock
The Space Between
In shuttered darkness, We meet by the river, you and I, Breath gathered in our hands.
The boat rests high on its rack, a delicate shell, Blades hang in stillness, barely touching. We move slowly, watchful of the space between.
Over water the human voice scatters, While our bodies press and glide, Making long-remembered arcs.
Swans, roused from sleep, sense unfamiliar rhythms. In return, the gift of wingbeat As it passes through the heart.
A silvered trail behind us Splits the river in two, asking questions, A geometry of sorts.
Later, with limbs spun out, We head for home. It is everything we mean by moving.
from Alison Hramiak
On a night so deep you can taste it
On a night so deep you can taste it,
I read your letter, aloud.
Quietly.
Uneasily.
But I can’t make sense of the words.
As if somewhere,
between the page and my eyes,
they gave up the ghost.
Lost all meaning -
jettisoned any sense they might once have had,
on the journey to my brain.
The implausibility of your logic marooned on the way.
I hurt.
But is that you hurting me?
Or me hurting you?
Nerves stand naked and restless,
quivering outside my body,
anticipating the last line.
The final word.
Over.My thanks to Jonty, Elizabeth and Alison. If you’d like to see your work possibly included here, look out for further invitations in 2024!
Also published this weekend, this free short story:
My Dear Polly
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My Dear Polly So one must protest. As he sits by the Sailing Club jetty, pungent smoke from his freshly lit cigarette rising in a brief cloud about him, he knows that one must protest. Yet how? In front of him, a little girl, blond and pretty in her short Sunday-dress, lifts up dried slabs of seaweed. And a little boy watching, encouraging, talking to he…