Scarlet Lines – Candice Louisa Daquin

Water-Flowers-Photography-by-Nicolas-Senegas-e1473392893297

We were running so fast, lost our hold

on reality

it became a normal thing to

wake when darkness blotted sky with festive blackout

silence roamed halls of disapproval with tender switch

then I tasted, the purity of life

like a distilled drink, untouched by sweetness

this draft did not yield to usual fears

of becoming irrelevant as a woman

shifting weightless from one state of being to another

without permission, no discernible change

save the decisions made in our absence

by controller of who we are, when we don’t yet know

how to halt the discourse, throw stereotype and expectation

out with convention

the whip and goad of woman since

first she was brought to her knees and told

I control the discourse, your identity is shaped

and fractured by my say-so

I label your value or deem you worthless

because you are too old

beyond a date in time

there the guillotine falls

sorry you’re on this side now, without your head

sorry you can’t gain admittance into our club

we only like them fresh and mailable

any woman who thinks for herself, must be trouble

make up rules to control her, keep her cowed

give her endometrium and other punishments

it’s all rather biblical, said the atheist as he

inserted the next record of tricks

some cruelty smells like him

and his turpentine prostituted room

burning on false fuel, I was only 18 then

yesterday and a century later

we don’t oblige women with scars and fat

nor sagging breasts, nor any chin hair

if you’re greying or balding, go fuck yourself

no one else will

the seat in the waiting room is a laundry shute

out with the old, in with the new

we have voracious appetite for shiny flesh and unstrung hymens

I borrowed some platforms and sewed up my leaks

put on a negligee and three layers of peat

the bog man looked pretty good for his age too

hide behind war paint, chew through your sickness

give me succor baby, give me raspberry crush, give me voodoo

lovers who oblige the second time around and the fourth and the fifth

standing freezing outside Hotel St. Pierre

drinking your waste and glut of youth

I gained admittance on false pretense

hasn’t it always be that way?

change your name, gender, race

put on another person’s face, inherit for a day

or an hour or a life time

all the little girls want your number now

all the boys want to pray between your legs

serve me something unshaven and hot instead

there are fevers in the walls, trying to get out

we have three minutes until it’s midnight

then illusions are exposed, everyone sees the truth

middle-age never used to be a purple bruise

we made it this far

tomorrow the sun is coming out

remove the war-paint, undo divining spell

maybe the light won’t extinguish you

I want you to like me, for who I am

not the girl who tricks you with her little doll cries

was it yesterday or last century?

we lay beneath your blanket and you impregnated me

with the urge to live forever, never grow old

even the beautiful turn to grub and worm food

live fearlessly, wear yourself boldly, you said

as you eased the knife to the sweet spot

cutting upward from your pulse, in thin

traceable, scarlet lines

Stepping Off the Spiral Path- Christine Ray

No longer virginal maiden

lips like ripe peach

no longer fertile earth mother

babe at breast

I have fallen out of memory

fallen out of myth

Filled with the wisdom

of time

experience

I reject the title crone

I am decades from being wise woman

alone in the woods

Is there no place

on the spiral of life

in a society obsessed with youth

beauty

for midlife woman

come into her own

comfortable in her own skin

in her own sexuality

sharp of mind

no longer defined solely

by relationships to others?

My vibrancy undimmed

my ambition awakened

I refuse the mantle

of invisibility

only sanctioned option offered me

I choose instead my naked soul

blaze my own trail

in a world unprepared for smart

passionate

confident

hungry women

who do not fit in a rigid mold

who belong solely

to themselves

 

Image of Helen Mirren courtesy of Pinterest

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

 

Song of Fifty-Four/Karem Barratt

at 54 2

My breasts are round, still firm.

White threads intertwine with

My hair of night. My thighs

Are no longer tight, but

My pubis still fires up, a

Volcano of flesh at the

Right touch. They call me ma’am

Whilst I look at naughty lingerie.

It’s not easy, oh no, this song

Of fifty-four.

I have so much hunger

For things yet to be done,

So much longing for what

Has come and gone.

I want an electric

Tricycle. I want to be

The weird lady riding it

On the high street. I want to

Knit hats and gloves for babes

Smelling of candy and new skin.

I want to tango with a 30-year old

With a great moustache and I

Want a soft hand holding mine,

As we watch the sunset at summertime.

I want to wear flowers on my head,

And bring fifty-four years of experiences

As an offering to life. I want to dance

All night and give half of my stuff away.

I want to rest and just be in the now,

At the top of the hill from where I can see

Until forever. I want to drink wine

And eat cheese on the beach,

And just smile. And stop worrying

About achievement and success –

What ever I do, let it be done

From a place of joy and peace and

Why the heck no. Oh, easy is not,

This song of fifty-four. And yet

The more I live it, the more I feel alive,

Unafraid of the Shadow, in love with

The Mystery, surrounded by hundreds

Of brothers and sisters singing the same

Song. The song of us, the  unfinished

Master works, ready for one more chip,

One more stroke, one more stitch, a last touch.

Let us then sing the song of us,

Sing it high, sing it tall, wildly and blissfully,

This topsy-turvy song of fifty-four.


I can’t say I follow any particular tendency or style. I pretty much let my heart sings and copy the notes into the computer, and then play with the sounds and meanings until I feel the poem, idea or musing have taken their own shape and personality. I am originally from Venezuela and have been in the UK for 14 years. I am a writer, poet, blogger, life coach, interfaith-minister, celebrant, language teacher, Domestic Goddess with an edge,  Tarot reader, mother to a girl (light of my eyes), a dog, a Guinea pig and five plants, and wife to the most patient man in the world, who sometimes appears in my poetry. I feel very lucky to be multi-racial: Spanish, Nigerian, Native American, Jewish, Italian, Arabic and Finnish. Somehow I think that influences my eclectic style, which flourishes in almost everything I do, from my writing to my cooking. Like everyone I have had my ups and downs. I have experience domestic violence (first hubby) and ridiculously sweet loving (second hubby). I am immigrant and right now I am witnessing the loss of my country (long story) and yet I have been very much welcomed in the UK and have grown to love it very much. I am bipolar, psychotic, suicidal and suffer from psychosomatic epilepsy, which can make life a challenge at times, and, at others, weirdly fun.

I blog at Singing Heart

Courage…-Eric Syrdal

Courage ES

Shall I tell you what she does for me?
Shall I show you the blisters on her hands?
Where She has held my heart,
Aflame with passion’s rage
Shall you see?
how Her tender cheek,
Bears the tracks of ink tears
Which She sheds for what I can not produce
On this page
Even though I lay the book open and pour out
A deluge upon the leaves
She, alone, stands in the dark with me
I can feel Her air near me
And I do not shiver in the black
She will take my rough hands
Into the velvet fortresses of Her own
And though my heart trembles
And though I am tired
And though there is much I fear
I will feel Her against my lips
I will taste Her kiss
And my pen will, once again,
speak of Her beauty


Eric Syrdal is an independent poet/author. He’s an avid gamer and Sci-Fi enthusiast. He enjoys reading science fiction and fantasy literature and spends a great deal of his writing time focused in those genres. He is from New Orleans, Louisiana, where he lives with wife and two children.  You can read more Eric’s writing at My Sword and Shield….

carpet burn-Lois E. Linkens

carpet burn LL

she craved him like a carpet burn;

the seer of young flesh

on crimson’s rough exhaustion

leaves a glowing scar,

hot in healing

yet reminds her of times

when her legs could brush the rug

in freedom,

now confined

and shackled

to the upright seat of adulthood.


Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. You can read more of her work at her self-titled blog.