I count them on my fingertips: branches without berries, leaves or acorns, without warmth, horribly exposed skeleton bones poking upwards of the horizon like hands attached to choral lamentations reaching up from the underworld seeking a love they lost days, months or years ago. Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2019 Between the Trees UK Between the … Continue reading Without berries
Bric-a-brac tumbled, jumbled, across the shelves, scattered in dusty glass cases: broaches, pins, postcards and teacups, shoes, letter openers and model trains, infested with age, idleness and the odd ear wig, next to the closet of death - an under the stairs space with screaming stags and boars pinned to the walls; too many squirrels … Continue reading Taxidermy
Every weekday morning I pass a lone pink house on the corner. It stands solitary against whatever colour the sky chooses to wear; I wonder who lives there. The trees and the climbers are too well-kept for the love and attention of Mother Nature. Yet, I have never seen a living soul go in … Continue reading Aeternum vale
I've never seen a dead body before which I'm not disappointed about, like most people, I prefer bodies which are alive and well but I've seen death; tasted it on the tip of my tongue. I watched the branches of a tree be severed with a saw and tossed into a metal bin with kindling. … Continue reading Oxygen & Dust
Sometimes I wonder which would be better: death or insomnia? Because I cannot withstand the in-between. Cold nights tumbling in and out of dreams. Dreams of dying, dreams of living, dreams of running toward a hanging moon; taking the rope from around its pale withering neck and binding my wrists to the ground. … Continue reading Hanging Moon
What do you say when a twelve-year-old asks you if we're dying? Three doors presented themselves. The first stately and indifferent, through which I'd feign disinterest and parade my selective hearing. The second scientific and nonchalant, which promises a cocktail of truth without feeling, shaken not reassured. The final, pulses red and glows pink like … Continue reading 8:40
I know now, I wouldn’t stumble on your name. The phonemes would slip, unrequited perhaps, from my mouth in an exasperation of air if you walked through the door. All because I truly cannot remember the last time I saw you outside of my mind; a palace and prison. I do not think my heart … Continue reading Widowed (Pt.2 of 2)
They draw glances from the road, Sympathisers and some emphasisers, Some trudge, some go between the trees, debris and bodies. Heads bob along the wall, Ready to crouch and lie flowers to a mama, papa Or child. They draw glances from those lost in the Boxing Day hubbub, Sympathisers and empathisers but glances … Continue reading Boxing Day
Midway through our life’s journey, unchartered upon trembling waves, I went astray from the straight road, all lined and gold, And woke to find myself alone in a dark wood, now grey now old. Never told what I was to see, a halo of angels at pearly white gates? Nor was I to expect … Continue reading His Courtroom
Minutes pass in seconds, A door opens "You're up early?" "She's died." A phrase, a fact. I rise whilst you sleep Cold, calm and soon to be collected. Withered and wrinkled, yet Wit blossomed in the corner of your smile, Kindness bloomed rosy red in your cheeks, The sun rises, Whilst you sleep. The clouds … Continue reading V
