Do you remember the sound as country met cliff? The incessant utterances of waves as if in a zealous bout of worship. The crumbling in the distance - the singing erosion of salt, sand and rock. Do you remember the sea foam? The bubbles and spit? Softened shards melting beneath, shifting, swaying with the seaweed. … Continue reading I remember
We used to collect them down along the groynes which met the horizon and the setting sun. We would count them, one by one, and see which of us, seven, eight, and nine, was the richest. Yet Granny never let us pop them, because they were the property of the sea, belonging to … Continue reading A mermaid’s purse
My latest poem on FVR ❤
No one ever tells girls
how awkward ‘blossoming’ feels,
how unceremoniously ugly you feel
the moment your body opens its sleep weary eyes
to tell you, to warn you, that nothing is sacred –
that innocence
is lit dynamite.
No one ever tells girls
how much everything changes,
how nothing remains the same
and suspicion becomes your middle name,
because trust now comes with blood
and bad choices –
now innocence
is a short fuse.
No one ever tells girls
they are the only ones without matches,
but hungry eyes and greedy fingers
exist in plenty – with wooden sticks
and the smell of cordite
swirling in their dreams
because innocence is something
to be lost – to blossom and fall,
to wilt and burn between the heat
created by a finger and thumb.
Kristiana Reed is a writer and an English Teacher living in the UK. She is the…
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I could probably fool anyone if I tried. I am small and I am lithe. I do not look my age or act it - I am an old soul with windowless eyes and I try and I try and I try - to be everything and nothing, to be extraordinary and just me - … Continue reading The fool
My heart flutters in bruised magentas as time melts through our skin and solidifies in our bones; heavy. Like amber hardening thick around the filigree wings of an insect, one thousand years old. We wish to crumble, to fall into dust, leave on the wind with a sudden lightness; the disappearance of time … Continue reading Heavy
Magnolia walls, all four and counting, breathe with us now, they know us now, so much so our skin begins to match: a canvas on which you compare me to every fruit the supermarket did not have, every flower you haven’t seen, every sunset discoloured by the evening news. Just magnolia is left, off white … Continue reading Magnolia
April Submissions are open on FVR! The theme is Blossom ❤
To new and regular contributors to Free Verse Revolution, the April 2020 submissions window is open!
The theme will be Blossom and it can be interpreted in any way you wish; whether that be pieces about spring, the symbolism of blossom, a metaphor for innocence or a story about youth.
I accept poetry and short pieces of prose which interpret the theme of the month in some way, and only one piece from each writer; but you may send up to three pieces for consideration.
Please follow the guidelines, it makes accepting your work and scheduling it for publication so much easier. I edit FVR alone so these guidelines do exist for a reason. Thank you.
Send your submissions to myscreamingtwenties@gmail.com
April’s theme: Blossom
Interpret the theme any way you wish; you do not need to use the word as a title. Pieces may be previously published.
Submission…
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The second time I kissed you was the first time we fell in love: a siren song without beeswax in our ears, helplessly stumbling across shingle for the shore, for the waves, seeking the sweet vibrations between our lips, succumbing to the fall as we tumble beneath sea level, deep into midnight. Poem: © … Continue reading A siren song
He speaks love like it’s witchcraft: blue smoke curling from the cauldron at his lips, kissable and lacquered with gloss. He speaks love and I tumble like cloth at his feet: spellbound, always, indebted to the softness of his touch, his words and his mind. He speaks love and I’m his. … Continue reading Witchcraft
I know we were young and these thoughts are just melodramatic coins thrown into a bottomless well, but I must ask, the vacuum between us now, if I was ever more than leftovers to you? If I can ever see myself as more than the girl you called by mistake. The girl who watched you … Continue reading Leftovers
