we have distance
with a smattering of rocks
with no one to bow or scrape to
nobody’s feet to kiss
no one to push us down
or help us back up
if you pummel religion
in a pestle and mortar
it all breaks down to
the parched ridge of lips
that can’t be closed
all living things
there is little point in prayer
when the beak
holds the thorax so tightly
& in this maelstrom
a slowly considered chaos
well thought out
planned and mapped
like the currents of air
we can only dream
of a place to call home
so we watch it
like rocks in a hot and scorching sun
and stones time can’t defeat
bonds endure weathering
save us from the depths of ego and greed
wash away the stains of petty jealousies
This sip is making deadly sound today
because the taste of poison’s certainly unique
and sometimes the killer becomes the prey
comets crashed and fires were blown,
and winds were fierce while gases condensed
and the earth we couldn’t know was born
eras come and go—
and power always needs reproving
the very idea of royalty doesn’t come cheap
Sometimes I think you call to me
from an entirely other place.
A world where red rocks scorch our thoughts;
where you spin at a different pace.
Still I would shower you with gifts.
You want water; I proffer cash
and grovel with impure trinkets
uncovering my guilt edged trash.
Where I’m from the water untruths.
It hides as ice in vodka, sipped
by totem pussies playing with
weakness on sour painted lips.
We are tricked by roles in this life,
identity ploys. Open your beak,
little birdie, don’t be shy. I have no knife.
I came to listen to you speak.
And when the final war erupts
we’ll parachute between wagtails
into oceans of sea monsters;
learn how even planets are frail.
Last night I dreamed of high ramparts:
the last castle where we might hide.
My ancestors came from that heart.
Now the sky exhumes their insides.
Marc Woodward was born in the USA but raised in England. He has been writing mainly poetry (& sometimes manly poetry) for many years. He has been published in various small magazines and anthologies. Marc’s work often references his life and surroundings in rural Devon as well as his activities as a musician. More of his poetry can be seen on his on his blog. www.marcwoodwardpoetry.blogspot.com
Jay Gandhi is a 28 year old businessman from India who likes to read and write poetry. Most of his poems are written in a Free Verse format. His poems use lucid language and are easily comprehendible. In his free time he likes to spend time on social networking sites.”
Michael Ashley is a thirty something year old who is based in a little town in Yorkshire, United Kingdom. In between the 9 til 5 humdrum he enjoys walking his dogs, and writes a little poetry.