Fast Flight by Karen Little

A great site to read and/or submit your poems to 🙂

I am not a silent poet

Jets are ready to take off for war; banners advertise the beauty
of cruel weapons. Sticky-pawed children queue to stroke
red-tipped wings, imagine parachute silks floating through
clouds escalating beyond the hangars. Fathers, who won’t watch
them grow, climb into polished seats, their specialist camouflage,
invisible in dark paintings, quivering under the thrust of propellers.

The sky dribbles vibrant colour, drifts through the scenery. Destination
isn’t important when fighting is; challenging the insupportable
outweighs the risk.  For gamblers, risk is everything and nothing
at the same time; they can’t imagine not making their mark, won’t be
remembered with the wispy beards and skinny shins of old men.
The end is a plume of dust rising from the tombs of the bewildered.

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Shudder on the Stairs by Karen Little

One of my favourite sites. for reading and submitting to….I have a couple of poems here today…….

I am not a silent poet

Broad backed, seal-like on the rock of stubborn acceptance
she feels flop-heavy, all fierceness gone. Dipping into morning’s
amber road, the journey absorbs her pain, smoothes the grumbling
edges. I try to read the whole of her: the shudder on the stairs,
her crumpled skirt dangerously torn. The road has seen and heard
it all before. The walking wounded don’t commit suicide on a whim.
My mind is a playground with a germ of an idea, a gem sparkling
within the umbra:
Mountains deny artificial explosives can be put
to good use. We explode naturally at times—all that fat.

Ash and steam create the loudest sound ever heard,
while history doffs its hat. We surmise that if we bubble
and expand enough, someone will hear the report.

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The Writers’ Cafe Magazine – ISSUE 4 “Time and Space”

A great online magazine to read and submit your writing to…..I have a couple of poems there this month…

The Writers' Cafe Magazine

The Haunted Sky
by Peter King

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Waiting Room
by Peter King

Waiting is filled with silence;
one drop slides down the smooth side,
hesitates before it’s sucked beneath
the incurved marble base.

There is bustle and commotion all around,
but it’s absorbed and nullified,
leaves not a ripple in the syrup
of the silent vessel, not a trace.

Even when the waiting’s overset –
a clumsy jog of someone’s
shoulder, maybe – it is slow to empty,
silence spreading out in sticky lace.

An insect, small and iridescent,
slow to see its danger, struggles
in the unexpected flood, antennae waving,
silence setting it eternally in place.

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Black Hole
by Peter King

Beyond the armoured glass
its metal shutters now drawn back,
I stare at vacum.

The stars are brighter than
I’ve ever seen – but I don’t
see them now, nor my reflection,
nor the ghostly cabin at my back.

And when…

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