Paul Clyne

The Open Mouse

Healing House

And what healing it was, this healing
endured through the sickest of years :

white bandages, red-faced bed baths,
the student doctors lauding x-rays

as works of art; my own masterpiece
hung askew near bright metal devices

that hummed, turned our air sweet,
unnerved the chambers of my heart.

Thirty six weeks without diagnosis
despite tests, calculations, diagrams –

blood samples lined up like lollies,
night terrors gauged in kilowatts,

calcium siphoned for willing bones;
each morning the promise of home

became a more distant prospect,
visiting hours brought spectacular

gifts wrapped with ribbons and bows,
teenagers tutting to shoot the crow.

Our loved ones, masters of deflection,
offered gossip in place of questions

they couldn’t find the strength to ask,
weeping behind surgical masks.

Copyright © Paul Clyne 2014

Paul Clyne lives and works in Fife, Scotland. He has returned to writing poetry recently after a ten…

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‘Bind’ by Chris Murray

Poethead

Bind

 
if there are birds here
then they are of stone
 
draught of birds / flesh bone wing
claw in grass,
 
rilled etch gathers to her nets
dust and fire / tree-step (again)
 
bird claw impinge and lift.
 
surely light would retain in
silica’s cast or flaw ?
 

bind #2
 
it gathers outside the perimeter
not wanton gargoyle nor eagle
it is of-one-piece   seamed
 
migratory pattern of
 
umber dawns rolling
their black frenzy
down condensed corridors
 
bind I and II was first published in Deep Water Literary Journal (August 2015)


Thanks to Tom and Eve O’Reilly at Deep Water Literary Journal for publishing ‘bind’. The new DWLJ is online now and it is well worth a visit. I am adding here a link to Tom D’Evelyn’s blog. Tom wrote about the ideas in ‘bind’. I am, and have been…

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Friday Fictioneers Flash Fiction – Mirror On The Wall

Vers Les Etoiles

icon-grill-ted-strutz

The lurid painting above the bar fascinated him. The vivid colors were such that he paid no attention to what was depicted. Slanting sunlight glanced off the rows of bottles behind the bar and made the rose colored lampshades glow. The leather seat was cool against his arm as he rested it along the back, craning his neck. Waiting, watching. For her. He saw her reflection in the mirror above the bar; tight black pants and silk top that caressed every curve. He stood to greet her and she flung herself into his arms. She was alone in the mirror.

First Fictioneer



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