I learn to sleep on an air mattress in the one-bedroom apartment I share with my mother. We don’t have any real furniture yet, but we do have a space to call our own. There’s no overbearing or intoxicated male presence to tell us what to do, and for the first time in my life, […]…
Priti Patel tells a nearly all-white, mostly male reactionary elite what she has been taught to say and think in order to be accepted. They look at her, confused, blank round faces staring back at this Asian woman reaffirming all their cherished prejudices. She speaks of ending the free movement of people once and…
Hear this modern Eve,
where the apple slices sharp
the wax drowns new wicks
swallowing the knife of words
watch a candle cut to flame,
choaked, a blessing came
with an absence of honey;
uttered without tune
where weary throats broke quavers
on past moons, hope a sliver.
Antonia Sara Zenkevitch
(post formally called ‘the magic touch’) I love magical realism, the unexplained sitting side by side with routine, reasoned reality. Perhaps I love it because in truth reality rarely appears very reasonable. My fascination may in part be because that taste of magic fulfills in me a yearning for everyday enchantment, but not too much…
Our mothers’ mother
speaks within the ancestry
of bees and flowers.
Hello all, Below is the wonderful round-up of last week’s #FreeFormFriday prompt, exploring the art of free form and combined form. Many thanks to contributors. Apologies for being slightly delayed today, life overtook events. From now on I’ll be running this fortnightly. If you would like to join in I’d love to hear from…
You may not see our battle scars,
but know this; we are not victims
we are this world’s warriors.
First, Majesty made sun and moon Equal luminaries, a sky to crown, Legend says Majesty spoke with the moon Who said no two could wear one crown, Majesty, some say, decreased the moon, The sun, it seemed, was left to wear the crown, Majesty, tales say, ministered to the moon By giving her…
Lady Grey rests beneath a tree, leaves brewing scented breeze coriander swirls coffee, roasted chickory, hands blending, they speak through perfume, merge citrus and sea salt white blooms, spice, olibanum tempering fruit, ripe blackberries brush childhood memories on mint julip lips, stems crushed to release fresh tales; auras of was and May bees,…
I cannot count them, these broken pieces of possibility.
But they haunt me, oh, days cantering by they do,
and I am whirlwind in a storm box,