It was all my fault My immaturity got the better of me and I found myself less interested in finding a solution to our problems that in hearing her say You’ll not make an arse of me again in her rich British voice
Each time she said it was like a little thrill-spike to my rat brain a jewel in my diadem Or maybe it wasn’t— that phrase just popped to mind I don’t even have a fucking diadem
Our relationship was doomed due to nothing more than my penchant for colourful language
She was easily angered I was superficial I also didn’t care to develop a long-term committed relationship and said as much on the various dating websites I’d joined I’d even joined Christian Mingle because I’d been hooked by the poignancy of one of their commercials the one in which the dewy-eyed woman says: He’s my second chance
I guess my heart wasn’t in the game as much as it should be and when my new partner protested: I’m no one’s twat-waffle I couldn’t get enough of it
We would go down in flames on the Hindenberg of vociferously expressed non-twat-waffledom
It’s hard work
being a king. At least, that’s what kings would have you believe.
All those heavy crowns and the repetitive strain injury from all that
royal waving. I imagine at least one king must have met his end after
toppling from a balcony, too (though it’s quite plausible that some
assassin gave him a push).
Yet, somehow, I
think kings have it easier than they make out.
Kings are lazy.
That’s all there is to it.
Even on the chess
board, the king is the laziest of the bunch. Those bishops and rooks
are zipping all over the board. The knights are the champions of
jumping. The queen – well, she’s the busiest of them all. Even
those slow moving pawns can be forgiven, as they march slowly into
the jaws of certain death. But the king? Not him. He’s skulking at
the back, hiding behind his army, never moving more than one square
at a time except for darting into the shelter of his castle.
No. The average
king is only interested in doing the least he can get away with.
Work? That’s for the peasants. The occasional gala event, perhaps
opening the odd library or hospital, and spend the rest of the time
on hunts and at balls and feasts. No sense doing anything that might
upset the people.
Once in a while,
however, a king breaks the mould. A king takes power with energy and
enthusiasm and some downright bizarre hobbies. They inspire their
subjects, terrify their enemies and put all the other kings to shame.
They don’t tend to last long. Regal duties soon crush their
outgoing spirits and leave them as bitter, twisted old men, if they
don’t get assassinated in the meantime. That balcony is looking
particularly tempting tonight, your majesty…
And sometimes,
cruel irony alone is enough to bring them down.
One such
go-getting, unusual king went by the name of Melvin. I know, I know.
You can’t believe there could ever be a King Melvin. The history
books do tend to overlook him, it’s true. They tend to skip over
the gap between Henry XVIII and his uncle’s wife’s grandson,
Henry XVII (what can I say? I think the scribes lost count – it was
a confusing century) and declare that either one Henry ruled longer
or the other started earlier, or even that the kingdom spent three
years in anarchy. Perhaps historians prefer it that way. Trying to
explain King Melvin is… difficult.
For one thing,
Melvin refused to wear a crown. He had the most magnificent hair,
which he kept on a stand by his bed at night so he wouldn’t crush
it in his sleep, or vice versa; a bouffant wig some six feet high and
home to three birds, a family of dormice and a small butler that
could attend to his every whim should the regular butler be off on
holiday. A crown, he said, would be taking things too far. On royal
occasions when a crown was demanded, the royal potato wore the crown
instead. (Sorry to disappoint you, but the potato was a Maris Piper,
and not the King Edward you might expect. That would just be silly.)
King Melvin was a
kind and friendly king, often throwing gold from his castle windows
to the starving peasants below. This went a lot better after the
first attempt, when he started first taking the coins out of the
sacks that held them in his vault. Three peasants were crushed in
that first deadly display of generosity.
He also had a
fondness for nature. At the start of his reign, it was not uncommon
for King Melvin to be seen going for a gentle jog in the forests
around the castle. This was brought to an equally gentle end after
three bears, two wolves and a confused badger had to be executed for
threatening the life of the king. Melvin was sad about all of these,
especially the badger, and he proposed an alternative – he would
live in a brand new castle, made entirely from nature, and he could
smell the fresh grass and the woodland flowers without ever leaving
his home.
It took two years,
but the finest architects, weavers, forestry experts and farmers
found a way. The new castle was not so much built as grown. The walls
were a light frame of saplings strung with ivy, the carpets were the
freshest of spongy forest moss and the walls were clad with tall
reeds and grasses from the river banks. The entire castle was a
living sculpture, every blade and petal still living and growing.
Birds nested in the parapets and insects buzzed happily over the
canopy of leaves that formed the roof. The people were immensely
proud of the Green Castle. Even Versailles could not compare to the
grandeur of this bold undertaking.
And perhaps all
would have been well, if it were not for King Melvin’s unfortunate
hobby.
I said before that
these more… active rulers pursued pastimes that were a little
strange. King Terence III held yodelling contests during his reign.
Queen Alfreda was so fond of cake that she ate six cakes for
breakfast every day. When she finally died of her outrageous obesity,
collapsing with simultaneous liver failure and heart failure just as
she was walking down the aisle to marry the Duke of Pembrokeshire,
even the wedding cake was in tiers. Compared to the knife juggling
King Michael IV or the Elvis memorabilia so loved by King Phillip IX
(not the singer Elvis – this was long before his time – but Elvis
Cooper, the bawdy jester), King Melvin’s obsession was positively
tame.
King Melvin loved
to collect thrones.
Small thrones,
large thrones, gold thrones, silver thrones, bone thrones, lone
thrones, twin thrones, trombone thrones, moaning thrones, groaning
thrones, home thrones, work thrones, thrown thrones, lost thrones,
found thrones, thrones of swords, thrones of skulls, thrones of
games… he didn’t care. Whenever he found a new throne, he had to
have it.
Soon every visiting
dignitary or merchant looking for a favour knew what to do. Buy the
king a new throne, and he’d shower you with gold, and he’d even
take it out of the sack first. The floor of Green Castle was packed
full of royal seating. The annual festival’s game of musical chairs
could last for days as there were far more chairs to take than people
to sit in them.
As the throne count
went up, Green Castle grew ever more cramped. Finally, something had
to be done. The king summoned the architects, the forestry experts,
the farmers, the weavers, the thatchers and told them that the castle
needed expanding. They needed more throne room.
A quick survey of
the surrounding area ruled out the land to the north (too rough, too
rocky) and the south (arable farmland, vital to the kingdom). The
western expanse was no use – that’s where the old castle still
stood, and several armies over the last three centuries had failed to
take it down, so demolition seemed unlikely. To the east, the old
forest still called Melvin for a last jog. He didn’t have the heart
to cut it down.
There was only one
direction left to build, and that was straight up.
Construction work
began that very day. An old weeping willow, spiralling up from the
floor, served as a staircase to the upper level, where two lines of
young oak trees provided a second floor via a network of branches. A
carpet of foliage covered these branches. With space to move at last,
King Melvin ordered his collection of thrones moved to the upper
level. Downstairs, the business of ruling the kingdom could finally
proceed – and the next game of musical chairs would be over in less
than four hours.
Perhaps, in
hindsight, they should have known. The King of Monaco, on a flying
visit from his homeland, was so impressed by Green Castle that he
gifted King Melvin with the largest, most extravagant throne that had
ever been built. Mahogany framed, lined with gold and jewels,
cushioned with the finest down from the fluffiest of pipistrelle
bats, it was a dazzling and irresistible gift. Twelve footmen were
needed to drag it up the curving willow to the upper level, where it
was given pride of place in the very centre of the upper floor.
There was a lot of
ominous creaking, and then came a mighty crash. The new throne had
proved too much for the delicate natural timbers of the castle. As it
came crashing down, so too did dozens more thrones of all kinds. The
castle groaned and shivered, and then the sapling walls and the grass
cladding folded in on itself. To the horror of all who watched, Green
Castle collapsed inwards. King Melvin, along with his retinue, was
crushed to death beneath his own throne collection.
King Henry XVII
took over the kingdom, moving back into the main castle. He didn’t
collect thrones, or indeed collect anything – aside from dust, and
taxes. He lived another fifty years before falling off his balcony,
but he was one of those boring kings that never did anything special
beyond that. He’d learned a valuable lesson from his predecessor.
People living in
grass houses shouldn’t stow thrones.
I don’t have long in this world My wife will keep me going for a while and I’ll keep her But then it will be as she suspected and as I suspect Again I’m drunk in the afternoon on red wine She’s at work I look out the back window The forest rises like a mountain The mountains rise like the white-capped waves coastal travelers see
Not Me
I made you pregnant Early the next morning you suffered nightmares Hideous Parisians were coming after you men with shaggy wolf heads Huge black men cut the air with glinting sickles I took a meal in an elegant restaurant I thought of everything in the world with equanimity A golden waffle with very small holes was served on a china plate Coffee was served in a gilt-edged cup I made you pregnant Early the next morning you twisted in bed suffering nightmares We were at my parents’ home When I got up to piss my mother trapped me in an alcove and persuaded me not to marry you
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
Our desktop, age 12, expired quietly Last night, after a long illness, Surrounded by loved ones. Win32k.sys Address BF801276… In its declining years It was still able, slowly and with Great difficulty, to find The best price on gas, The route to Nova Scotia. But twelve is pretty old, even in doggy years, So when we saw the dire language On the blue screen, We despaired of heroic cures And entrusted it to the Cyberhospice Who thought they could save My e-mail list, some files; Other things gone, Like certain memories, irretrievable.
I used the library’s computer today— New operating system— And saw a list of files Not meant for my eyes: Resume update, Draft for Mum’s obituary.
If our new computer should last twelve years… Better not to speculate. I do hope they’ll return the Old hard drive. I plan to keep it In an urn On the mantle.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
I listen close, knotting thread through my fingers, focus on the disruntled cock of your head: “you’re fidgeting again”, shrug the shiver of wanting to hold comfort in my grasp but fuel thirst for scrutiny.
Tremor of hand, you analyse to alienate me until– I feel my limbs disconnect and fall heavy weighted by your speared pupils: a broken woman picks, picks, picks away at the fleshy upturned belly of a young girl, soft skin–with time she will grow the armour to fight this woman.
Florence tourist
Quiltwork faces collide we witness, feel stomach swelling toasting, square stuffed with selfie sticks – there a man lies supine painting film her slow-motion street dance, flashing backdrop of cathedral. Brash voices shoot code new language of Google maps hands navigate bars to golden doors future worship flicker on Facebook as night pales to calls distinctly English we wonder where locals hide from storming feet.
Isabelle Kenyon is northern poet and the author of Digging Holes To Another Continent (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). She is the editor of Fly on the Wall Press. Her poems have been published in poetry anthologies by Indigo Dreams Publishing, Verve Poetry Press, and Hedgehog Poetry Press. Her book reviews, articles and blog posts have been published in various places such as Neon Books, Authors Publish, Harness magazine and Five Oaks Press.
i can see in her eyes she will kill me one of these days
if i was an optimist
i could see a future a house, children playing with the dog in the yard
i’m not an optimist
i see a drained checking account, credit cards used without my knowledge and the threat of more violence if the other demands aren’t met soon
when an old woman
my dirty brain laughs when an old woman checks me out
even if it’s just for a second
i can’t help but wonder if i would
it’s been over a decade
of course, i would
single in my forties
the darkness inside of me kills everything it comes into contact with
at least that is how i’m going to think of being single in my forties
i could lament having no fucking luck with love or i could drink away the pain
i’m sure there are better options
but i never set foot in anything resembling a better life
i’m comfortable in filth despair and the usual sad moments of agony and pain
sunshine gives you cancer and there is no gold at the end of a fucking rainbow
beethoven plays in the distance
all the angels are out of mercy
they look out of place here anyway
unlock the case and load
every ending is a new beginning
or whatever bumper sticker works for your ending here
but as the light fades
she was the kind of woman that had already lived a couple lives before you walked into hers
she never wanted to fall in love and you never wanted to like the pain
but as the light fades like a soft angel peeling her lips off an old soul
she’ll teach you the horrors of gin
of cocaine after three in the morning on an empty stomach
of what happens to the hero in a land of assholes and disease
depravity never lets the sun shine
be careful the first time you see your shadow
one false move and she’ll haunt your dreams until you die
no desire to even think
i remember thinking i was going to die in my twenties when i was a teenager
i never even thought my thirties were even a possibility
there was no planning, no desire to even think it was going to happen
and now i’m acing life in my forties and figuring out how to die while poor
indoors is the best i can come up with
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights & Goodreads
Attention: This manifesto has in itself a magical power and it can finally refute the communist manifesto (1847/48) and its successors in the form of communist states.
It burns a peaceful campfire!
I am part of the pink eternity. I enchant the poetic stars. I dream with ghosts of melancholy. I am a magician of dawn. My wing is called Apollo. I’m so enchanted, so dreamy. I am a sky dreamer. I am shrouded in the most beautiful enthusiasm. My dream enchants the beautiful world. There is a magic dream in my wings. My wings can do magic. I like my dreams. My dream is hotter than feeling. Philosophical thoughts are waiting for me. Philosophical sparks shimmer at me. My philosophy is infinity. I am in love with the infinity of politics. I like a druidic fire. I want to become a druid priest. Modern druids beautify my existence. An eternal spark rests in my poetries. I am spiritualized thanks to poetry. In politics you can be poetic. I never quarrel with muses. I fly in pairs like muses. My wings would need starry rays. With beautiful sounds fulfilling my dream of melancholy. Poetic moments enrich my soul. There is an Osiris chalice in my soul. My friend Loreley is a philosopher like me. In tender tears my magic life takes place. I sometimes quarrel with tears of finiteness. I would build a school for Druids. The imagination unfolds in the moon. I adore Osiris forever. My friend Osiris likes the original beauty. In my chalice there is Osiris’ soul. I fly to the land of Osiris. I write a legend to the Osiris. I drink a dew of eternity. In the dew, I can refresh my soul like muses. I warm myself in a gentle dew. I cool my wings in the magic dew. In the dew falls my little shooting star. Ambrosia is eternal for my sake. In Ambrosia I feel infinitely beautiful magic. I love to perpetuate this Ambrosia. An idea about the Ambrosia is waiting for me. My tender thought must be enchanted by Ambrosia. I, sitting, wait for spiritualized moments. I sit there as if I were a musical angel. I philosophise as if an angelic muse had touched me. In the wind, my moment becomes like a star-shaped existence. This touch reflects my eternity. The tender poetry becomes my temple. In the most beautiful stamp of feeling I belong to you. I can love all the fantasies of the dawn. I’ll show you my freedom of mindlessness. I like to collect coloured shooting stars of the angels.
Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.
Once
there was a slip of paper, folded into four. It sat in the pocket of
a heavy green overcoat.
Dorothy hurriedly fastens the large buttons on her heavy green overcoat. The click of the lock signals a release. She slams the front door of the detached house.
***
Dorothy
flinches as she eases the white turtle neck jumper over her head, and
down the contours of her shoulders and back. She picks up the black
stirrup pants from the bedroom floor and sits back onto the bed. He
turns towards her; opens his eyes before drifting back to sleep.
***
The kitchen welcomes him with the smell of freshly cooked: eggs, bacon, baked beans, and fried bread. One place set; one napkin, Daily Mirror, one cup and saucer.
***
Dorothy
is on her knees scrapping a mixture of smashed plate, eggs, bacon,
baked beans, fried bread and blood into a dustpan.
She holds her breath as he dips the fried bread into the yolk of the egg, he pauses: “Perfect, now why couldn’t you do that the first time?”
She pours the tea as he swallows his last mouthful of breakfast; removes the plate and places the cup and saucer before him. Her grip intense on the plate – as he slurps the tea she closes her eyes – waiting “Spot on.”
A silent sigh as the plate sinks beneath the Fairy bubbles. She watches as the grease floats to the top. If allowed to smile, she would at this image, as it impersonates her underlying feelings.
The
chink of his china cup alerts her to be swift. A neatly wrapped
package swops places with the china cup and saucer. He picks up the
greaseproof paper package, held together with string and smells it:
“Salmon?”
Dorothy nods. She hands him his flask of tea. He places the flask on the table; unwraps the neat package to reveal two perfect white triangles. In silence he selects one triangle; peels the bread apart, exposing the pink flesh. He rises to his feet; takes four deliberate steps towards Dorothy. He throws the triangles at the toes of her suede boots and places the heel of his black Oxford shoe onto the pink flesh and twists: hissing through clenched teeth; “It’s Monday.” A fine shower of spittle shocks her eyes. He turns around hesitates glances at the clock, puts on his collar and leaves.
***
“Ladies
it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to Mrs Darby our speaker
this evening and judge for the best scones competition.” Dorothy
stands up. “Thank you, madam chair…my talk this evening; ‘Life
as a vicar’s wife.’
***
“In
third place Mrs Blackburn, in second place Mrs Smith’s cherry
scones and in first place Mrs Green.”
“Thank you, Mrs Darby, a delightful talk and I hope you will join us for tea and scones.”
***
She
closes the front door and leans against it. A shard of light glows
under the parlour door, her body is frozen with dread, a moment to
realise. She hangs her green coat next to the black overcoat with the
velvet collar and goes to make a pot of tea.
He
grabs her wrist as she sets the tray down, his eyes seeking what is
not there. Once released she sits down and drinks her tea. The mantle
clock chimes ten, Dorothy clears away the cups and goes to bed to
wait.
***
Dorothy
waits in the Little Blue Café on the high street staring out of the
window, she thinks to herself, what secrets are the people that pass
by hiding. Gentlemen hurrying along in their over coats and trilbies;
are they kind to their girlfriends or wives? Young ladies laughing
and chatting rushing to work; are they truly happy?
The waitress brings, her toasted
teacake and milky coffee. “I thought it was you, it is isn’t
it…Mrs Darby?…you probably don’t remember me, I bet you meet
loads of real ladies being married to a vicar and all…”
Dorothy recalls that evening of course she remembers her, it’s the cherry scone lady; Mrs Smith who should have won first prize if she wasn’t the vicar’s wife and it wasn’t the WI.
She remembers, she remembers him coming up the stairs, his dark shadow over her and then she felt the heaviness of his darkness.
Mrs
Smith orders herself tea and toast and tells Dorothy about little
Billy and his verrucas and Nellie and her nits.
Then she stops and asks: “So, how are you?” No one has asked
Dorothy this for so long it takes her breath away. She finishes her
coffee and starts to talk.
Mrs Smith listens, she does not try to make Dorothy feel better, she is not shocked. Dorothy knows she is not alone. Mrs Smith has lived the same life. She understands the fear that stops her fighting back, keeps her in check. Mrs Smith does not question; she writes her name and address on a slip of paper and carefully folds it into four. She takes hold of Dorothy’s hand; pressing the paper into her palm. Mrs Smith pays her bill and leaves.
***
Dorothy
hurriedly fastens the large buttons on her heavy green overcoat. The
click of the lock signals a release. She slams the front door of the
detached house; hesitates, then runs towards the Underground Station.
She takes the Northern Line not knowing where she is going.
She slides her hand into her coat pocket; pulls out the slip of paper – unfolds it and reads the address. Dorothy steps from the train at Warren Street.
Sally Shaw is a full-time MA Creative Writing student at the University of Leicester. She writes short stories and poetry, gains inspiration from old photographs, history, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros and Liz Berry. Her short prose, A School Photograph, has been published online by NEWMAG. She worked as a nurse for 33 years and lives in North Warwickshire with her partner, three Pekin Bantams and Bob the dog.
“There are babies.” I looked up.
I hadn’t expected to hear another word out of her. I took her
hand again. Her eyelids flickered open. “Babies? Where?” I
asked. “At bottom of garden.” I frowned at her. Maybe this was
a sign that she as at the end now. “No, Grandma. Fairies.” I
said. “You’ve got fairy statues at the bottom of the garden.
The ones I used to dance around when I was little.” There wasn’t
a pause on her part. “Not fairies, babies,” she said firmly.
“Look after my babies for me.”
I always get a huge thrill out of reading books that perhaps initially I have glanced at and thought to myself ‘Oh no, this isn’t going to be my thing at all’. Followed, three minutes later, by being completely awed by the author’s writing and, by page two, knowing for certain that I’m reading something very special. Linda Green’s book, The Last Thing She Told Me, is such a treasure.
Linda’s plot weaves a superlative
trail across the pages of her novel. Written from a first person
perspective, we follow Nicola, a wife and mother to two girls.
Initially, we meet Nicola as she gently cares for her grandmother,
Betty, who is experiencing her final moments of earthly life. Before
her grandmother slips away, she tells Nicola that there are babies
buried at the bottom of the garden. From that mind-blowing
revelation, Nicola’s world is turned upside down, as she
investigates her grandmother’s bizarre claims.
This is my first experience of meeting
Linda Green and it’s very clear from the opening page that she is
an excellent writer. Her carefully chosen words weave everything
together very tightly and the fast pace of the action keeps readers
on their toes, or at the very edges of their seats. The sense of
mystery is maintained right through to the concluding chapters; again
a firm testament to the author’s literary talents. The balance
between ‘show and tell’ is absolutely on the mark, meaning that
all characters, and their wide range of expressions & actions,
are very memorable; living on in our minds beyond the final page.
Each character’s voice is strong and depicted with utter
believability. Furthermore, each chapter is separated with a thread
that goes back to wartime Britain in 1944. Over time, this thread
becomes a vital part of the overall plot and helps the reader to gain
further insights into the actions of the characters.
‘He had woven a web and I was
trapped in it. It was my stupid fault for getting caught in the
first place. When the knock came, I walked to the door, opened it and
let him in. He wasn’t carrying flowers this time. There was no
need for pretence. We both knew what he had come for. “Best get
the kettle on, lass” he said. He drank his tea, then wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand. “Right then.” he said. “Better
go upstairs, unless you want world and his wife watching.”
Linda’s ability to portray realistic
voices is another testament to her impressive writing ‘toolbox’,
with characters ranging from small children to much older facing the
end of their days. The secrets that many characters clutch painfully
to their hearts is a vital aspect of the story, as Nicola turns
detective and seeks to uncover many skeletons; both metaphorically
and literally. The links and connections between all characters are
made clear and the reader is left in no doubt as to who is who and
what is happening; again a display of fine talent for a story line
that bobs and weaves at a steady pace throughout the novel.
It’s very clear that Linda has
researched this novel extremely well. It’s also a nice touch to
have a short explanation from the author at the end of the book,
describing her initial reasons behind writing it.
Because Linda has achieved a fine
balance in the action and portrayal of characters, the pages turn
very quickly and, for me, it is a literal definition of a ‘page
turner’. We care about the characters because Linda makes them
important to us, ranging from the background characters to the main
protagonist who is relaying the story to our eager eyes.
This is a brilliant read across all
three hundred and sixty-five pages and I thoroughly recommend it. I
would also dare you to put it down, once it has utterly gripped your
literary mind.
there was a tender muse-like moment of charm, such an Apollonian tear when the cute bee set down on a noble rose in the kind calyx of the bloom, full dreamy splendour
the gentle sun smiled, at that time, at it fairy-like oh, a sweet morning gracefulness of rays, the owl stayed with the courage that is in the habit of flying into an ancient forest homewards
there was endlessly angelic-beautiful early spring a tender March like a breath with pleasant smell of hummingbirds and in bright nightly moonlight which is fulfilled in splendour of butterfly the ghosts of open fields are dreaming incredible with the gleaming time of fantasy
dreams about the morning star and this steeped in legend Venus boasted about the dreamy bee with marvellous native glow because it experienced something very old such a butterfly-like feeling as if it had been infinite fledged as the heavenly she-daydreamer
that bee wanted to relish only the dew take a few drops of an eternal water to itself easy drinking and its wings dipping
yes the rose was knowing in a gorgeous dream of the primeval delight
as soon as the insect looked in the mild kind dew it saw there an enchanting minute small mirror
through the mirror the bee observed the dreamful nature the hidden spring mermaid from an other time as trace of ontology
that was the boundless wonderful eagle-like eternity what a melancholic land of spring dream-magic!
the mermaid with the harp was a young poet of muses that youth forsooth with a thousand warm lights of hearts
the bee dreamed like an Apollonian rider through the March into April
meanwhile the soul of the bee became tender willing to a starry flight as well as worth the ambrosia
the while in rosy calyx and mermaid´s observation have enchanted forever the dream of the eternity
Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.
