The August Editor's Pick Poet is
Theresa Newbill
Please feel free to email Theresa at: dominus_scriptor1@yahoo.com
IN TWO WEEKS
Scotch shimmers against shaped ice,
ice that cracks and smokes, swiveling
in geometric cubes too astute to follow
a rational process, without a single
movement of the hand.
The tin roof of the pub rattles with the
wind and rain as light bulbs flicker,
skittering shadows above table tops, where
bugs have stopped buzzing over left over
food and drink.
Piano music diminishes now, as dusk rises
slowly, fearful of having entered such a
desolate space, yet bringing a special
balance to the souls of the night, the
social equals, that have replaced softness,
for hard core serenity; and the sounds of
piano music, bring blue ink waves of filtered
light, where every modulation of note
shifts the burden of hope. Sometimes courage
enters a foolish heart,
a dirty trick the rum plays on those who
have given up all hope; another feeling that
brings about ecstasy before despair, before
fairy tales of a happily ever after seek their
revenge.
At dawn, the smell of their fate will cover
every aspect of the pub, like a secret rodent
gnawing and festering beneath a mural of demons
in subtle cocoons. In two weeks, there is no one
who will remember them,
in two weeks, the finality of their lives will
orb into black energy matching their unfinished
goals, killing their dreams, silently moving
from folded chair to folded chair, where the
heartbreaking stories never stop even as
memories dissipate. In two weeks, a bountiful
spring will come and they will remain unaffected,
condemned to vanishing indoors, where the hearts
of the resigned becomes the concrete that builds
the hell which sustains them. In two weeks...
DRUIDIC TIMES
Sacred bonfire flames haunt the night;
enchant the spirits with their plight.
Elaborate feast calls,
all wizards, witches those with sight,
to bless the circle, Pagan's flight...
Horned God reigns as night falls.
THE UNMENTIONABLE ONE
I wasn't there when you were born,
when the windowpanes swayed
from sleet and hail as
wind beat across the skies and
trees trembled and snapped from revolt.
I know you were beautiful in your
mother's arms as exquisite love grew
with playful bubbles and dried tears on
lashes that wished for patience, contented
with resilient hands that soothed.
Simple contact was enough to heal a
colicky rhythm as fire invaded veins,
slowly ate away at the digestive tract.
With difficulty, your spirits alone
connected, tearing away the walls of pain.
Naked to nature you were kept warm
as you learned the grammar of body
language by force of habit that grew
perfectly with you while you loosened your
knuckled grip on the world. If only you were
told, that dreamt clouds crumble.
I wasn't there when she died and left you,
when the pine box was lowered into the
ground rendering you helpless as the sun
melted into nothing while the darkness
bore up inside you suffocating
the ecstasy once felt by a familiar smile.
I was there when you hardened your heart and
dragged your feet, hunting butterflies for the
kill, hurting things before they hurt you,
lowering your head but not from being bashful.
Your movements became tentative, uncertain yet
unwavering, breaking a path to condensed eternity.
Theresa C. Newbill is the co-author of The Magick Of Vanilla Chai Tea With A Pinch Of Damiana. She is the author of The Open Diary of a Witch. In addition, she has edited a beautiful book for ABCTales.com and is in the anthology by Poe Little Thing/Naked Snake Press ~ In Space No One Can Hear You Scream and in the Voice of the Bards Anthology.
