A link to a writer friend's blog where she writes about a worthy new publication. She's also responsible for the cover's fantastic artwork.

Just one word…

Change Slips In

Autumnal change, unfixed, a slow, slumbering

breeze, soundless as a drying leaf wafting

from the past, like shifting sands, an ebbing tide,

shadows of a time gone by.

You have brought new colours to my table,

energies abound, their vibrant caress support

for darker days.

I lie on a cusp, arms open to

the richness of expectation, heart alive,

high above a dancing landscape, abstract,

flowing, waiting, like an actor in the wings,

confident, yet uncertain.

Whisper, sweet change, reveal your secrets

with ochre dulcet tones.

Wash me clean of yesterday and carry

me through a swift today to the ‘what if’

of tomorrow.

Imbue me with the hues of autumn’s canvas

so I can settle, unafraid, ready to meet

whatever comes my way.

Sun shines, rain falls, wind blows;

night comes with the promise of light.

Change slips in, as it should,

like a friend bearing gifts.

My Wordpress Blog

My Wordpress blog. I think I'm going to post there from now on.

http://writingfromtheoutsidein.wordpress.com/

Here's a link to one of my crit-buddy's websites. Carol Ervin has recently released her first novel, The Girl on the Mountain, which I had the pleasure of critting. I have no problem recommending it to anyone interested in a fantastic read. http://carolervin.com/?blogsub=confirming#subscribe-blog

The Longest Day

the longest of days

mirrored on the lake surface

solstice in my heart

Warped Canvas

El Toro, grotesque beauty,

so easily erased to mollify fallacious bloodlust.

Francis Bacon, hedonistic impressionist,

painted good-looking men;

matadorial studies of male on male action

transferred to the sordid dousing of your innocent flame.

Ceremonial peacock, zoning on his prey,

curious, post-pubescent in his hip-thrusting ritual.

His tortured plaything, heaving, almost spent,

unaware of the impending onslaught strutting two feet away,

pausing, awaiting that sadistic nod from sweaty Mammon.

Nero, you never went away.

El Toro, blazing heart, they wait to see you

pierced with their slender, penile rapier.

Their special-bred boy.

What if you refuse? 

Deny them their theatre?

Turn their blood-smeared table over?

Be sure. 

Be thorough. 

Use that savage heart they would deflate of its burning glory.

Use your virgin impaler, your ivory phallus.

Let them balk to taste the untainted side of

Bacon’s warped canvas.

Destroy the sabre-clad man-child

and live to tell your tale.

El Toro, innocent beauty, live…

for us.