The Blood of Ghosts

The Blood of Ghosts

On this star where nothing matches, the clueless seek pennies
Under a gold streaked sky, a woman sits on a great rock
The vestiges of love wrapped around her, ghost blood
Is the colour of  limes in twilight, elsewhere is magenta ore
There are such songs which express the sharpened edge

But none to sing such strangeness  which cannot be slipped
Into a stave, or notated by an  ordinary system
The lingua franca of lovers
A coincidence of phrase, a coupling of two such different colours
Now one does not understand the other
There is an chromatic dissonance where feeling flowers

So beautifully that others marvel at this painted desert
But would not tread the path into such violent  terrain
Where kisses never fall or even ordinary rain.

Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved


Mortal- Poetry book by Veronica Aldous

Dear Reader,
My book, Mortal, is a collection of some of my best poems. Themes include nature, magic and desire, loss and healing.
The book was created with love and care to  bring pleasure to the senses.
Please click the cover of Mortal to be taken to Lulu to purchase for £9.99.
All my love Veronica xx
mortal cover

She Dreams of Three Guitars

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She Dreams of Three  Guitars
Along the Unpath, covens whisper of the caves
Reaching up to grasp the olive groves
Mouths ready for the unripe  harvest
Strum the guitar number 1, maja

For amber colonnades
Reaching back to violet skies

Here on the market, thieves sell honesty
It’s a heavy basketful, they lean
On consciousness, dead weighted eyes
Strum guitar number 2, duende 

Above chasms and gorges 
A bright bird drops red cherries…

A dark field where she wanders
Which door is hers, which door?
Where did she leave her fine  ambition?
Vaquero,  guitar number 3 por favor.

In the magenta sunset
When the green ray hits the ocean floor

Three gold bodied senoritas
For you Cortez, for you…

Veronica Aldous 2016 All rights Reserved


Lazy Cat and La Malinche

Lazy Cat and La Malinche

La Malinche queen of conspirators, arches her back
Flips in and out of being a cat, is sun on pebbles
The dark shadow cupping her buttocks
In two crisp indigo moons, she loves
That grey conquistador who is her companion –

Down by the river, hot flies sting the alligators’ lips
A huge anaconda slides a filthy malcontent down his throat
There is healing in this swamp  of dripping leaves
The leeches have purpose, the women collect them
To cool fevers, senors with red hands indolently flip fish
Gambling on supper cooked in green sheaths
In scarlet bodega  broom cupboards , men dream
Of  Malinche rubbing her breasts upon a fur rug
Their ribcages  can barely contain the hormones
That make them  loathe themselves
As a preparation for war.


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved

The War Photographer’s Son

From Mortal, my first collection of poems

The War Photographer’s Son


The moon’s a trigger

his torso mapped with scars

perimeters, and the stars

are for hunting by

in strange scimitar regions

his camera flies

while my mother curls

me on her lap

and cries


there is always Reuters

to rely on and the papers

we have the  old shrapnel

shards from netted stitches

trophies of an alien zone

maybe a  return

camouflaged with laurels

my mother  drops

the phone


the moon’s a shutter

its eye upon the dying boy

I feel for him/feel nothing

there is a part of me

that stalks the moonlit jungle

in big dusty boots

a nightmare up and  running

my father

loads the film and










Veronica Aldous 2015 All Rights Reserved








Fans the sweat heat coming through the  ripped door
Cracked feet dusty soled upon the beaten clay
The wheat all bent in rows and swaying  as if reapers
Worked in time together strung in lines, but only breeze
Tickles all the feather ends of  rye and oat
Tools once moiled and troubled dissolve in rust
Poppy coloured-   reddle once used for marking
Stirred of whey, ochre and bullock blood.

She does not scythe or  bind the stooks
Nor bites the wheat to test its starch
Rats cough and grunt along their paths
The timbers lean heavily, yawn and list
As ergot spores explode on summer nights
Whilst a low huge moon explores with fine hard fingers
The cracks in slats, what’s left  behind…

Is softly winnowed  dancing motes and lumpen sacks
The husks and heaps upon a rotting rooted miller’s  floor.


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved.



woods lady2.jpg

She made love to all the little fishes, slipping them through her fingers

From mi yeye deh a mi knee she sang to all the black nosed  creatures
Learning their names by hearing their voices, what can this un do? Fo mi?

Slow tings burnin’
Hot tides breakin’ on science
Obeah thickets

As he walked toward her
As if he would govern
Her ownliness, her balm yard

Fo’  cri! She laugh out loud
Dis one tink he Cortez !


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved