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  1. Brief winter sun of the flashing king streaking waters that are waiting for wings. Ears are tricked by the wind's onomatopeia, kingfisher's colors are streaked across the moon's shining spear. Snow arrives winter is cutting its hair. I wonder if the stream leaves white footprints after walking in a dream to catch the moons blade wearing a tear. There are blue glints, the kingfisher's courtship, the male grips the gift of a fish to his mate. The intimacy of otters as they stitch sharing the chalk's white thread, the needle's eye widens as days lengthen. Somewhere in chalk, there is a cache of each fish taken and every cloud that passes.The night is arguing with itself, the snap of thunder, bolts of lightning are its tears perhaps. Summer clouds are slippers for angels.
  2. why are poetry forums like this one so quiet?
  3. The moon was buried in an unmarked sky wearing my face, soldiers trained ghosts not to haunt those whose identity's had been displaced. Moving through villages winter seemed to lose its sense of self, tasting the cold it's shaking hands held the dead. As soldiers advanced the night walked backwards with holes in its boots, those children saved parachuted through cavities. The day called for commitment, measurement, for the ascent of ideals; and of transfiguration. I heard hungry trees near the desert talking about becoming ladders to the clouds to taste the rain, the desert spoke of raising insurgent sandmen to ride horses to prise the moon from the teeth of the wolf; two lots of blood, dust and sand, ideologies intermingled strand by strand. I was held by an image of a map of this land in the glass of heavens door falling through space, its trajectory corresponds with ours as we move beyond solace.
  4. My son was born without the power of speech, the secret police beat me while he was still in the womb. Hassan's bellybutton disappeared as he grew older and he painted a cave of winds (a reference to his family I believe) on a butterflys wings, when Hassan slept a flower grew where his bellybutton used to be and the butterfly would rest on the flower as he slept. The photographs taken of the bombed village we left slept then blinked woken by desert storms hammering the shack. I saw a gun balanced on the flower as Hassan slept and it began to talk of a butterfly choking on the vapours of war and surviving. My thoughts became formless like the wind. I wrote our names on two sheets of paper throwing them into the night like two abandoned wings.
  5. The sea's hand has a sixth finger, castle holding promontory, pressing against the wind's mouth. An artists's vague appendage, source of inspiration, his tears are launched like lifeboats to rescue thoughts of Dunnottar castle, bar after bar toll castle stone, tallying with story's borne out of an artist's stiff brush standing in a jar, the strive to be authentic, are the constructions on a promontory counterfeit when measured against those of nature?.
  6. yes well done
  7. Tears are launched like lifeboats rescuing thoughts of Dunnottar Castle, the sea has many windows it cannot climb through, there are many landscapes I can no longer preview. The strange dream I once had is seeking me-in which I was stranded in an ark on top of a promontory overlooking the castle, with the waters below drained and all that remained those drowned painting the sea as I sketched two promontory's.
  8. Their is a ladder of my shadows reaching the moon as I am laid in earth, they lower his heart placing it in my chest and I am allowed to walk amongst the living whose spirits walk on the moon contained within this heart.
  9. we need more members
  10. I was more struck by these lines after I wrote it- can hands from a cross reach a bloody watch hung between the sun and moon, to correct the time?
  11. Where is he?
  12. The day is like a camel waking with the moon still on display, the few rays of sunshine carried on trays down spiral staircases intimated in winter mists. A watch is attached to a bloody wrist every Christmas day, I have been for years trying to find footprints in a an hourglass filled with snow. Disparate snowflakes rest on boughs, snow is the alarm of the clock of the trees being announcing winters arrival and the familiar pull of history's catheter as sources are gathered. old modes dripped. I see a pair of antlers trapped in ice, holding but not gripping the sun, can hands from a cross reach a bloody watch hung between the sun and moon, to correct the time?-he left hand-prints in clouds to high to reach misty staircases, perhaps flakes are his frozen tears. I arrive home as solstice nears, a blackbird has left imprints on an old suitcase packed with snow in a garden that hints at the calm of a millennium all cried out.
  13. The night would shake my autistic son like a snow-globe, he would talk with coherence about the advance of snow and the ache of a heart waiting to be made to make a snowman complete- he explained two hearts were needed to trick death and the sun, which winter plucked. We stacked snow and gave him two hearts, after daylight arrived my son returned to exile, he and the snowman share the same enigmatic smile, now melted-an absence is a presence to a young boy staring out of the window.
  14. The night moved like a sidewinder through deserts of thought as those leaving the earth rewound through histories. Night left with his mouth full of clouds and frozen thunder, lightning. One snap of thunder for those departing, one lick of lightning for those being born, clouds released rain, evening exhaled, winds of heaven wiped the sidewinder's tracks to etch names in the sand.
  15. The cuckoo seemed to come out further than usual, almost touching the moon that Christmas eve in the living room of Joan Fishbone who saw a young boy sat on the step, she invited him in, he was wearing glasses with one prescription lens and one clear lens, he held a snowglobe in his left hand. This was Joans first Christmas after her husband died the month before, she was struck by this child whose hands appeared to be older than the rest of him. "What is your name?", she asked, "John" he replied while shaking the snowglobe inside of which appeared a tree circled by children, with one boy sat on the branches. John directed Joan to the window and caught the full moon in a glass of water which was resting on the table, he encouraged Joan to take a drink, she started to have visions of a perfect world. The darkness appeared to embrace the boy protecting him as he slept in a rocking chair, Joan didn't know what to do about the child, that night she dreamt of being the captain of an ark, the sun was coughing out splinters, one of the ark windows was magnified-red marks could be seen on the splinters, children were training wind-horses. It was Christmas morning, Joan could see John in the garden, he was whispering to a horse built from snow, "he was giving the winds direction to paradise" John said, Joan was startled when she wished him a merry Christmas, she noticed both lenses in his glasses were now clear. "He has arthiritis after traveling for hundreds of years" the boy laughed, Joan felt the situation to be peculiar and normal at the same time, John seemed thin as he leaned against his creation. The sun was unusually close as if it was listening, "I have been talking to the sun, I told him my work here is almost done" he said placing Joan's hand on his chest, she could hear thousands of hearts beating, "can you hear yours?" he enquired, "I think so" Joan replied. "Watch this" the boy said planting a seed, a tree grew, Images from history passed by on clouds above, new born babies, an American indian doing a raindance and finally Joan and John, she could see the clouds reflected in the boys eyes as if they were the source. "I have to prepare dinner" Joan told John embracing him as he settled in a chair rocking silently, she was chopping vegetable when she muttered "Is my husband still alive?", the chair and the winds stopped moving, "I have a gift for you" the boy shouted, Joan found herself inside the snowglobe with her husband,"I've been expecting you merry Christmas" he smiled getting out of a rocking chair presenting her with a gift of a heart carved from ice, "this will never melt" he said, Joan dropped the gift out of shock, "see it's indestructible" he laughed, everything began to shake, her husband vanished into snowy mists, Joan found herself back in the kitchen with Christmas dinner prepared, in her hands she held the heart carved from ice, "you will need it for the journey with the wind-horse" John said pouring out a glass of wine, "have a drink this is a special vintage given to Buddha and Walt Whitman, the wine of human kindness will nourish the fires that stand for each child contained in your heart of ice" he said. Joan was distracted by a beautiful sphinx like cat with black fur shaking snow off it's fur outside the window, she looked across the table, John had vanished, she let the cat in and he sat on her lap. Joan named the cat snowy and every year it appears beneath the tree on Christmas eve spending the holiday with Joan,until her wind-horse arrives.