Mark G. Pennington lives and writes in Kendal, UK and has poems in TL;DR and is soon to appear in Poetry Pacific and The Oddville Press. Previous publications are under the name J. Rose, including a first book published independently in 2012 titled Lithium Clockwork. Sapphire diamond thoughts A tune of misery and pretence, Kitten and bauble in deep snow, Belle-lettres, Until the sea runs dry, Flapping madly, I am the seaweed, The night’s pliers, The knackered phone, Nobody calls. Karst processes, River flowing beneath Andrea, Wherever her voice calls, The snowman glistens. Will there be birds in heaven? Will the trees burst into song? Flavours of the bleating heart, Smelled like tulips in the rain, Belief goes a long way in this life, A musician ruminates, She was there now in searching And it would seem forever, Stream and ripples of her, Could not help but follow, Skies swallow birds Whole and spits them Out at the seaside, For eternity and beyond. The young will know To the envy of the old, The young will forget to The encouragement of the old, When the dove sails, Salient on the wind, She has practiced and Knows how to be free, Angel in the dogfights, Wings on wild doves, Smiles as countless lovers Have often worn in such melodramas. Vignette I cleaned the bathroom, I edited seven pages of Balthazar for charity, I got a haircut, I went shopping, I ate lunch, I walked to my childhood home, I returned to my flat, I took a bath and washed my hair, I visited my mother and father, I left feeling assured, I listened to the radio, I drank some beer, I ate beef bourguignon pie and green beans, I washed the dishes, I cleaned up, I watched the soap opera, I wrote a poem, I read other people’s poetry, I researched how to cut fennel, Butternut squash, And the best method of crushing coriander seeds, I drank some whisky, I listened to the radio once more, Then I wrote this. I am living this way, With coconut and velvet; Italian olive leaf In the bedroom, I have my mantras, And in the evenings an endless rainfall Lashes at the window Like a broker’s tongue. poesy orchid gardens situated in haven of peace, frequented on glorious free afternoons where children fly kites against high passions of the sunlight, play and roam amongst vibrant colour, flowers and the vapouring scents; and it creates lost years. the blur of men and women walk side by side on grey platforms, the moving segments of life in panoramic stream endlessly against the new Shenzhen vista. café is anonymously fitted with ultra-technological communications for the flickers in Versace and the espresso corps. Baby was waiting for Santa Claus The cloakroom is based on The outside of the heavy, Transparent door Of the brightly lit classroom, And it keeps the coats With mother’s living room Perfume breathing through The ripcords of each Taupe, azure and noir Fleece and hide. They will wait until the Fifteenth hour to return To their young bodies. Through the window, A woodland scene Untouched in the Distant free world. Silent and motionless The woodland scene Is filled with branches Of serenity, and much Like the rope on the hill It is waiting for the light to change. The light changes in the Fifteenth hour. The final exodus Allotments of stagnant summer Dreams were fast becoming Long summer nights Drowned in hard liquor By the train line, And bodies swarmed Like pirate ghost from A charnel house. Intoxicated, in dishabille, And nesting like Juiced aluminium Upon a chaotic futon.
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