Poetry By Elena Botts

blithewood

when the trees shivering pyres of warm like color fire

and contemplation of bay so grey centered,

reflective of the sky (her eyes)

we, wading into the nothing.

into the there was an aftermath here once, there was a grand garden and a story, oh yes a story and the

brave blushing people in their finery and the flowers, all dripping hyacinth, dahlia, aster in flown stars of

summer fallen into the ground and even the sky was larger somehow but then

mansion brick might realize itself shocked whiter under the moon, even our little radiances as we realized

ourselves, impossibly standing under

the sky infinite

just bare somethings in the dark, just forever

always expiring, well better then! the unimaginable

later, i was dancing with myself.

when i'm away in the blue

night like to be a sound tucked into an outer dark. i dream of you

senseless and unbroken across the stars.

you're a miracle for nobody. something came true but it wasn't for,

it only was. and i,

and you.

in your absence, i dream of everything.

real, vivid dreams.

blossoms coloring the spine of my stubborn bends and unreality inflating my cheeks with a blue cold and

writing me dumb

into the dead sky. it's wintertime.

so you're vacant and meaningful, so you're

into the soul, so you're you,

your body in the rain. i'll go outside. i'll meet nobody,

motionful in the dark. you can wait there, nobody, you can wait,

counting the times your reflection passes you by in the puddling future of us shrouded

in the present of your presence of please stay awhile i care so terribly about you i think i might die

and come alive again in the dark it doesn't matter in the dark.

i am into the earth and for nothing too.

you are the story as it occurs. mostly, i am missing myself.

Poet Elena Botts

before the fall,

the sky in a lilac rose before it falls,

scatter the winter trees.

until quick the blue shroud

pulled over the earth and all of us under

expiring the breath of our bodies

into a dulled omnipotence.

maybe souls glow low in the beckoning

night shudders.

if this were a love note for you, it would get

lost in the ambiguity. but

it is a comparison darkness. if this were a letter

sent by sea,

it would be lost,

no one would ever read. a terrible and immersive blue.

it has me gone and nebulous.

but i can't spell my own

luminescence if this were written to

the moon and all the nighttime cars through the nighttime roads, headlight countryside,

the plummeting.

you're the only one in the dark

enough to make light.

i'm sad that you cut your hair

i remember how it was full of care dark dense.

the storm gathered itself up and left.

did the fierce life of your body undo itself

easy i think the plummet. is it somewhere, the locks i mean

but i could not care for them

still, i think, somewhere your loss degrades. maybe it soils a floor. probably, the wind.

the wind, probably blows you quickly nowhere, you, a nothing, into nowhere. i think of you often

i think of the blue under the bridges when i think of you i think of how bay grips the mind of sky and

pulls under, us, into a gravity

as you lose, as by falling, loss, as by

and in falling, there a simple suicide. a blue smear against

i'm sad that you cut your hair.

surely it must be somewhere, your loss hidden underneath a stairwell i hope where sunlight steps carefully

through the afternoon and no one has to be anywhere,

i mourn your hair quietly all through the daylight hours i sit still in the staircase and tread nothing and

bathe myself with bare hands and no water in the waterfall ing of great light, of a simple god looking

down and smiling an unknowable smile but now i mean

the misery of an omnipotence that is no one

and he is no one. so where are you?

we are all gentle no ones treading or tossing because i remember how like a sea

it was when i craved to move fingers through the terrible quivering skiffs

destined for no place. i remember that night

when against the timbers we roamed motionless and you motionful, cupped yourself in your own hands

and i held you tight, inward, as though you might implode, a little star done in on itself all at once,

dying in rapturous light but then just a soft sigh of incandesce into the heavens.

you exhale, i respire. i hold no one. he is a cold body at dusk and

his hair cropped close and dull against the neck of him, the

always again i find you dying and then must save no body and i cannot even save no body so

i close your dead eyes and walk into a black, close night.

last autumn frost

the woodland architecture huddled up

into a mind of late autumnal

dreaming,

i cannot remove the lichen bodies

where they dwell in steadfast

frosted epochs

so i buried in the bay and froze my own

terrible bones, thinking of

eyes harder than any eyes

a blacker blue

than beacon soul shining outright and your pearly nose,

lined lips without miss you

don't care about the rest you just

rise away trailing

your left

whispered hand knowing what it is you know

when we fall upwards into a periwinkle sky

that can't or won't erase

the deadly stars of our fated minds,

held in but alien universes inside.

i've been talking to stars

i have no home but home of my heart not even four am aunt's blankets heaving dreams of nothing in the

ancient house, a mexican menagerie while che guevara the parrot is learning how to say good morning,

sam the monstrous cat needs your attention forever my grandfather has feeble magic, he is inexorable,

unmeasurable, uneraseable and soon he will be limitless although grandmother has already transcended

the realms of this world and the endless sunshine it becomes harder to move if only i were an idea.

i chose the mind space that is screen less windowing to the sky! was so beauteous! horrific! i was looking

for your black eyes in all the dumb boys moving like horses in the thunderstruck afterwards of rain,

restless come rage in the dirt with me young dear i do not know where i am knowing was a fond memory

drenched in sunshine, set out to dry on a childhood kitchen countertop my dad walks in talking the birds.

my mom raging her hands through six centuries time dispelled by you and me, she's still frantic

steering wheel and raisins in the oatmeal. she picks it off the floor while she's driving. miniature beacon

stoplights got nothing to say and the family cat. closing the doors it's always summer nightfall. we go

each to a dark enclosed space to sink our thoughts in outpourings. i just want to grab your heart with my

bare hands while mine was a vessel on its side leaking light.

gnight little moon and the stars too sorry for the black night sorry for always sorry for the care the awful

stare sorry don’t know what you're doing i walked behind the old building today almost wandered in

through window but someone's living there now stood between two windows in parallel for the first time

noticed the small tree in the middle my soul caught here once there had been something beautiful but the

ravages of world seem to keep us human useless always the heart ruinous being what it is we are here was

something beautiful before it was gone we couldn't keep the universe. but it was

we were in a perilous, 

even the moon, you

in your pale abstractions and i facing you whenever you spoke but less so for the words,

less so

and in this anything, there was something measured about us, an other realm that wouldn't become or

something about how your hands were different than how i thought they'd be but mine were the same as

you knew already with your black blue eyes transfixed and your motionlessness the way you were

easy speechless and i always so regardless like

when i'm with you i'll miss you to the wicked moon and so sail away

all undone on sheets reamed in starry schemes and fixed to mast pivotless wandering the unreedemable

blackness in which oh and even the moon was taken

for you, for you i sailed to the moon and never or ever came away again

as in an unbearable chaos that which made me, even the cosmos were caught

in love and in that moment of awe in what is was they were seeing, the beauteous,

the wide sky yawned and gasped

and held nothing, nothing

held it. nothing to keep us, me and you. nothing because the universe was so struck

it forgot

so all fell to a fabulous chaos,

and i never came back again for you or anyone at all.

i'm still here

i am so thinking of you

good morning you sweet thing.

so much so that breathing is new to me, your universe,

you, your stars.

i mean the unknown frames me,

keeps me.

let me be still and silent with you

just want to curl

sunshine/divine/your eyes

a side like a cliff face

your bones always like vertiginous

dear terrible earth, put me to sleep

you must be a stranger to be in my cloud because your stars are only of your own small burning

brightness. and my stars are only of my own. only one's own little light to love anybody.

as also i must be alien unto the earth else i cannot by beauteous broken know a thing for what it is

unless i am this strange soul light of no light at all but mine so i might

be in a place, the universe and then so

give everything of it.

that is, my light is only mine so that it be for you.

Five Poems By John D. Robinson

John D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; he began writing poetry aged 16 and published 1st poem a year later; many of his poems have appeared in the small press and online publications including; Bareback Lit, Red Fez, Dead Snakes, Pulsar, The Commonline Journal,The Kitchen Poet, Mad Swirl, The Chicago Record, Poetic Diversity, Your One Phone Call, The Clockwise Cat and upcoming poems appearing in Ink Sweat & Tears, The Legendary, Message in a Bottle, The Sentinel Literary Quarterly; he is married with 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 3 cats, 1 dog and he loves to drink wine and stare into space whilst listening to gentle classical music.

A BAD HAND

Even as a young boy of

4 years old he was odd;

I mean, he would never

look at you but clean

through you like you

weren’t there at all and

most of the time he was

eerily silent;

I was a decade older and

would occasionally child-

mind; I’d hear his mother

return in the early hours

of the morning with some guy

and make out I was asleep

upon the sofa, I listened

as they enjoyed themselves

and he never stirred

from his sleep;

leaving school he

attempted to work for

a living but things

didn’t work-out; he

couldn’t take being told

what to do and he

couldn’t get the fuck up

in the mornings and

he wandered away

from home and became

a slave to alcohol and

drugs and day to

day survival;

over time he and

I would meet in

passing and every time

he’d react differently,

he’d be friendly or

suspicious of me, or

he’d be silent or

ignore me or be overly

animated;

After numerous threats

and acts of robbery and

violence towards his

mother the Law courts

prohibited him from

nearing her home and

literally just hours after

she had died in

hospital, he broke into

her flat and stayed for

2 or 3 days eating and

drinking all that was

there and sold anything

of his mother’s that

he could and then

48 hours later he was

found dead of a drugs

O.D in his

rented room aged

42;

Several weeks prior

to his death he had

been savagely beaten

by money-owed dealers;

very few were surprised

or shocked by the

circumstances of his

passing; several people

commented that

‘It was always on the cards’

The poet John D. Robinson

A PRIVATE READING

Moments after she began

reading, she began

laughing and she

continued giggling

until she finished

reading a poem

about sex with a

former lover;

I sat next to her

enjoying her laughter

as I have done

for many years,

as she handed me

back the paper she

said with a grin

“Yeah, you’ve

exaggerated it a

little haven’t you?”

I looked at her

and said “Maybe”

she laughed again

and then said

“Well, maybe I

should write some

of my exploits down

in some poems, how

about that?”

I thought about it

for a while and then

said to her

“So you haven’t

told me everything?”

she smiled again and

said “Maybe not

everything”

“Not everything

huh?” I said

“A woman can use

her hot imagination too, ”

she said

“I’d like to read that”

I said

“It’s better to live

the fantasy out” she said

on the verge of

laughing,

“Can you make that

a promise?” I asked

“At our age’ she said

smiling widely.

‘I don’ think so”

I nodded silently

agreeing .

GETTING BY BACK THEN

We lived in a cold water

hovel above a 2nd hand

bookshop;

Frieda was an elderly

lesbian and she loved

to handle books and

young women and

when times were

tough I’d drop

downstairs and sell her

at bottom dollar,

my 1st edition

black sparrow press

Bukowski books,

and I’d beg her not

to put them on the

shelves and she’d give

me a week to buy them

back at the sold price

and she’d give us coffee

and bread and tins

of salmon and I’d

search the streets for

tobacco and cigarette

butts and sell whatever

I could so we could eat

and drink and we were

loose and young and

now we find ourselves

as grandparents; living

comfortable and

Frieda and the bookshop

long gone and the

Bukowski books long ago

sold for long-forgotten

meals and drugs and

alcohol and broken

windows and rusty

door-handles and

youth now

laying quiet and spent

and longing for the

lazy back-yard of

middle-age.

A RIGHTEOUS OBSTACLE

I had some business to take

care of in the hospital and as

usual made my way to the

nurses station and I knocked

on the door and a guy, maybe

a few years older than I

opened up the door;

I didn’t recognise him and

I couldn’t see his I.D. badge

as it was hidden beneath

his waistcoat but I knew

he was an outside

visitor from some piss-poor

do-gooder service and I

explained myself and he

appeared awkward and

guarded the office and began

to tell me that he had some

work to do and he began

to point with a limp hand

at some chairs scattered

in the corridor opposite

the office where I could sit

and wait and as he gestured

I said loudly “Pratt” and

then I slowly turned and

walked away and found

somebody helpful;

the following day I

learnt that the guy was

a hospital Chaplin and

he had been rather

shaken and unsettled by

my apparently menacing

appearance and attitude

and I thought, fuck me,

I had been soft on

the pompous old bastard

and next time, maybe,

I’ll do the right thing and

I’ll clench my mouth

and go find some place to

smoke a cigarette and

pray silently for my

treacherous soul.

THAT MORNING; EVERY MORNING

One morning

when he was

6 years old

he woke up to

find his 4 year

old sister lying on

the floor beside

his bed;

she was still, cold,

dead

and he couldn’t

wake her up and he

didn’t understand;

he went to find his

other younger

3 years old sister

and he found her

in bed, she was

still, cold, dead

and he couldn’t

wake her up and

he didn’t understand

and he began to

scream for his mama

but she didn’t come,

she wasn’t there, he was

alone and he couldn’t

understand and he began

to cry;

several hours later

the police found him

alone and crying and

not understanding why

he couldn’t wake up

his little sisters and why

his mama wasn’t

there to cuddle him

and later he

understood that his

mama had murdered

his sisters and that

she had been unwell

and had been taken

to a locked hospital

and he couldn’t

understand why his

mama had killed his

sisters and spared him

and

40 years later he still

doesn’t understand and

he lives his life and

he is humble, truthful

and a sensitive soul

and he lives his life

one

moment at a time

and what

scares

and

warms

him

simultaneously,

is waking up

not knowing what

awaits in the world

as he

opens

his

eyes.