Full Fathom

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Full Fathom

I am not one of many; I am one who knew
The volutes of your labyrinth
A sliding hand on the inner skin
The wall where pain had snagged
And wrought its patterns now overlaid
With sorrow’s bark; some sores still wept
With my hand which heeded pits and scabs
And made them call, O I said
O you replied
You whispered of his scarlet sash
and I said;
Corals are living bones.

Veronica Aldous 2017 All Rights Reserved

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Ghost Story

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Ghost Story

It still lives, the  fog under the tree, the slippery light
From the observatory, the verdigris bell
Hangs there, a question in the day, a sharp pain
In the night when stars change their chambers
Ruthless as disloyal lovers, lost lovers, lost.

He had to do it, didn’t he? There was a path
Full of black syrupy endlessness, a flash from a  car
The only illumination, no valley was as tenebrous
As the one carved from the bone of his mind
Violets grow here in April
This is the very place
This is where it happens.

 

Veronica Aldous 2016 all rights reserved

 

 

Midnight’s Gift

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Midnight’s Gift

Fill my bed with smooth pebbles
That I may lie with you
Beneath the coverlet of water
My face on your shoulder once more
Everything rushes and  groans
Under this unyielding moon
There is that deep violent blue
Whose animus is green
I am confused by our melding
The sliding of skins
But you are gentle as a fish
In your eyes are vibrant butterflies
You clasp my hot shivers
Until my politeness ends
Grasping at anything
That makes you love me more…

 

Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved

Painting by Veronica Aldous  2016 not to be reproduced.

November 5th

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November 5th

The sky slings its limp tarpaulin
Over a wan summer colored arcade
Walled away from chitter-chatter
I wish I had brought a red lipstick
Instead of this widow-dark shade
Which printed a hostile fan on my cup
The cake is  gracefully uncoiling
Custard and raisins spiralling outward
Oblivious to sorrow or hardship
Pastry is better than sour old symbols
Which turn the stomach to stone
Galoshes and worms, blighted apples
And all the cold wet rubbery
Apparatus of  trying not to remember

How it turns on a point
In one hapless spin.

 

Veronica Aldous 2016  all rights reserved

Original art Veronica Aldous not to be reproduced

November 2nd

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November 2nd

What fruit comes after frost?
Bletted quinces may quicken their saps
Frilled hunks of dryad’s saddle
Outlined with rime skittering deep roots
Into the angry  king fallen in battle
Dishonoured with beetle labyrinths

But I have wrapped you in large warm leaves
Tell me about the  African babies?
Enfolded in their green corn sheaths.

 

Veronica Aldous 2016 All rights reserved

Painting also by Veronica Aldous

The Last Place

 

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The Last Place

Had a gated door, a  flight of steps bounded by the forest
Where thin lipped creatures crept along paths
Undiscernible to the naked eye, ghosts walking
Down alleyways rank with moss and drooping tongues
Of ferns, lush sentinels of bunched grasses
Of many summer’s growth, cats’eyes glittering
Behind a  rooted stump so lavish with racks of fungus
A larder of sweet energies,  the spores bursting day on day…
All the while you longed to write, until night fell

When at last you could take out your pen
Weaving the  wiry words from hard won silence
Incantatory dreams released like oaths

A druid’s offering, your scintillating spell.

 

Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Fruit

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Fruit

Entering another garden
The air is different here, suffused
With other scents, hot wrinkled fruit
Wistful as old baboushkas
A clogged pond full of bottlebrush weed
The trees hang over like guests
Waiting for the dessert…

I am not part of this wooden tabled existence
Wine and cigarettes
The children which have children
The words which drift through the hedge

I am stuck with inky fingers
And a heart that keeps ticking
Later,  I will eat the memory
With cream and a spoon.

Veronica Aldous 2016 all rights reserved