On cold winter nights, when the moon shines full and clear on the forest, there is a sound that makes men mutter nervously into their beer; that makes women glance nervously into the dark, and makes all huddle nearer to their fires. That sound is the howl of a wolf, a sound that we associate
The clouds were woven on looms to be big as sheets. Today was mainly sky. Heavy, they laid out on the pavements watching the day split in two then mirror itself. The sea tried to hold her own but got lost when the sky landed hard, treated her like glass. The sand felt wet beneath
That’s the problem with digital cameras. Memories already lost, in their own way. Suspended in pixelated time, reliant on photographer or smiling subject to recall their moment – scroll, select and send to print. We rarely do in this house. When I was a child I thumbed the pictures kept in a blue striped Tesco
They call me the Gray Lady but I prefer Ruby Red against cold, hard silver. They call me the Dame of Darkness but I prefer the light of hope in their eyes when they see a mere woman behind them. They call me the Mistress of Death but I prefer the tender touch before they
I measured time in cigarettes. Underneath the underpass I popped reds and dropped blues next to sucked off Popsicle sticks. I straddled the concrete curb and anointed the night with love. I was alive— snorting coke in abandoned homes where pigeon shit painted the floor white. I ripped off loose wood and climbed to the
We passed him on our way to school, loving the way his black and white spats struck the pavement with a rhythmic trick trick trick; the hypnotic cadence following us like a liquorice shadow, forcing us to slow down. I fancied his shoes to be just as snug as my dad’s thick-lined, even thicker-soled bear
We started this thing years ago; where darkness surrounds light and each day unfurls like a stretched ribbon. As though in water the dust devils dance in sun and force my breath. They are living things that change. Dancing in air before calming, sinking and letting me breathe again. I close the door and edge
Pressed into my hand, it makes taut white spaces; my skin like linen stretched for stitches; your wedding ring cuts my lifeline, head and heart. I see the fine chain of ridges the pattern that followed me from conception and will, until death, be mine. The narrow band that once enclosed your finger connects the
Audio recording of the poem: [podcast]http://traffic.libsyn.com/storybramble/Playground.mp3[/podcast] Stephanie is a performer based in Scotland. You can find more of her work over at: Beautiful Misbehaviour. Her Twitter is: @StephArsoska. Photo of the playground courtesy of: PublicDomainPictures.net.
Like flowers they project from the walls, sucking the nutrients out of each conversation that passes. They form lithe clusters resembling Angel’s Trumpets, while grateful dew drops hibernate deep inside. I prefer to call them my fleshy flowered babies, but know they are really ears tucked up inside one another and creeping further and further
for years I could jump above the tops of trees in my sleep. a recurring dream, though details shifted each time. yet it was always a leap: my belly flipping only with the ascent, never soaring, or falling. on other nights, my drooping eyelids dropped me into battle against a simple flight of stairs. just
Even at first it was the ghost of you a white crooked crescent blurring in the move you struggled even then to know what light was for camera-shy and shuffling back to nothing but feeling speaking languages just for me. Only you and I know what it’s like to hold a thousand tiny heartbeats right
Evening falls within Saint Paul’s. Streets turn and hem cities in so even as I lay beneath the quiet remoteness that fades into lasting distance the discord of persistent imbalance remains present to me as the sun does daily. The arches rise above me as I border lines between memories and incomplete life the way
Friday night – late, table maybe 10 of us, I couldn’t rightly say. Just ended up there. And it seemed less strange, with wine and talk and food on plates, easy chat of this and that and faces put to names. Whilst fireworks tore the sky and screamed above, we could not see any light,
Take me, Lord. Hold me against the halo around your heart. Lord, let me laugh. For once, let me be myself and see the end of the world through my eyelids. Let the storm, the apocalypse come, come. Hold me Lord. Love me in your light. When you let me go, flood me with your
Sarah would buy flowers and not take care of them, just plonking them in a vase, often without removing the wrapping. The latest lot were a supermarket bunch – dwarf gladioli and stocks, rescued from the reduced price bucket. Some of the gladiolus blooms had not opened properly, sticking out like brazen little orange lipsticks
Audio recording of the poem: [podcast]http://traffic.libsyn.com/storybramble/When_I_was_wee.mp3[/podcast] Stephanie Arsoska is a performer based on the east coast of Scotland where she runs Storybramble, a storytelling site for parents. Her blog: Beautiful Misbehaviour and Twitter: @StephArsoska. Photo of the sky courtesy of: PublicDomainPictures.net.
Your leaving was the capture of the last page, torn from our five-year journal. I did not read another book, could not, only able to repeat missing words. [Her.] Myself. Eventually, one tires of absence. I re-titled the manuscript and kept the chapters in, unable to deny our history. Time brings reduction, bumping you down
You never expect this kind of treachery. The creaking seven-legged spider unfolds itself on a Tuesday at 4am. So off-kilter it lacks the decency to begin on a Monday, as a good week should. It creeps down from the ceiling. You feel like a child whose cardigan is fastened second-button in first-buttonhole: What is this?
Helen Braid lives on the West Coast of Scotland with her husband and children. She is a graphic designer who started writing and has been unable to stop. Helen co-edits the Britmums Poetry Round-up and has grand designs on a stone cottage by the sea. Helen’s poetry can be found on her website: All At Sea