Poetry Blog by T J K Conlin
Start a fire.
Steal a caldron.
Select the bones
of a longstanding struggle,
and toss them in.
Season with your spit.
Simmer for twenty-four hours.
Choose a raw nightmare;
a beast threatening all you adore,
a pitch-dark space which whispers.
Chop up the heart of it
and scatter into the mix.
Pour out a pint of good wine.
Half for you. Half for the stew....
Wednesday 22nd July 2020 7:26 am
grey joggers and a shabby top.
Pale faced with hair the colour of
caramel. What pose was this body
before being suddenly woken?
His thin frame is still pushing through.
Shivering; the hairs on his arms
anticipating the alarm of what is to come.
‘Sit down’, I said,
solemnly pointing with my head.
‘Your Mum needs to tell you something.
Best prepare you...
Thursday 13th February 2020 5:03 pm