‘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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The Discovery of Grass

A Thing for Words

Grass
Grass. Photo by Nevit Dilmen

A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees. ~ William Blake

I saw grass for the first time today.
Oh, I’ve seen, sown and sawn Suburbia’s
mostly-green undergarmentall my life.
But today it glowed upon my mind’s eyes like
a child’s first birthday present inside a shiny box.
I enjoy that infant-like discovery
of something I know I’ve held in my senses
since first I sensed. Maybe it’s
the light’s different angle reflectedto this
ever-shrinking man, or this shallower air
I breathe that, say, a pumpkin pie baking
can infuse with the aroma of earthy heaven
upon heavenly earth.

Or perhaps it’s just me, searching for
something new in a life of so much now old.
Like today, the cords in the blinds
in front of me never had that figure-eight
infinity-upon-infinity existence before
my vision’s finite reach captured them here

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