The Kiss
Tag: moon
Zoom Moon
I took this photo on my phone. My phone camera isn’t the best but I like how this turned out. There are so many colours, much more that my eyes could capture.
Incidentally, one of my friends dyes her own wool and asked me if she could use the colours from my photograph. What a strange and fantastic privelage. The wool will be named and sold as Zoom Moon.
Anyhoo, how is everyone? I’ve been a little bit quiet in the last week. I have begun editing my novel and that is taking up a lot of my free time. I have also been struggling with anxiety, (it comes and goes). This particular spell was bad and I think a lot of it comes from over consuming news (and public opinions). I find it difficult to identify with a lot of people politically, and in current affairs. I’m a lefty of course, and one of them damn woke people. But I have taken a Facebook and Twitter holiday. It’s only been a day and I feel better.
That’s all for now. Just thought I would check in.
Cheers for reading.
Share this:
Deadline
Time is running like the River Forth
and it is flowing down my spine.
Big Ben is printed on the back of my eyelids
And my heart is beating
Tick, tick, tick, tock.
Time is painted in the Stirling sky
and is burning holes
into the big fat orange moon, beating on me,
Beating like my pulse
Tick, tick, tick, tock
Time is flapping in the wind
And punching kisses on my chest.
White breath coughs from behind my teeth,
Chattering like supermarket baskets.
Tick, tick, tick, clatter.
Time is waiting on the bus,
Its holding a student pass outright
and the driver is checking his watch, shaking his head
Like a pendulum
Tick, tick, tick, bong
Time is passing by the window,
In the old ladies rain mate,
and it’s trapped in the spokes of an inside out brolly
and it’s pouring
Drip, tick, tock, drip
Time has landing on my face
From a charcoal dusk and
Airborne tear shapes that slap my skin
and roll
Tick, tick, drip, drip onto my essay.
Published in Brig Newspaper – University of Stirling
©Eilidh G Clark
Share this:
Scroll
It is midnight.
And the stroke of its hand is a memory;
A memory of
a hand that once held mine.
I am entangled in darkness
The hiss of a serpent wraps around
my throat,
until my nicotine breath bellows
And drops.
Amongst the shadows,
Optimism shines like a ghost
from an invisible moon.
I am calm.
Déjà vu haunts me
and I realise my footsteps
may have, walked this place before when I was young.
And my future.
You made me. You
and a bald headed man
who is and is not my father.
You gave me this midnight, and you are gone.
Sadness lives in me like tumour
but sadness pays.
Soon
I will hold a scroll to say
Be proud mum, I did it.
©Eilidh G Clark
Share this:
Drown
Midnight, On the blackened sand.
Waves crash upon the shore,
unfamiliar darkness
yet I’ve seen this place before.
Lying flat, eyes to the sky;
the stars are out of reach,
I’m all alone without you,
on this cold and lonely beach.
The gnawing cold snags my breath.
I wrap myself up tight,
I’m shrouded in a veil of grief
yet bathing in the moonlight,
I close my eyes and ponder
this melancholy mind,
I’m seasick from the universe
vanished from mankind.
Onto my feet I wander,
to the gentle lapping tide,
I asked the stars to help me,
in the moon did I confide,
but the burden was too heavy,
and my face a sorry frown
as I walked into the ocean
I said goodbye and drowned.
©Eilidh G Clark
Share this:
Blackbird
Mid April, calm yet breezy night,
I walked in the dark and was guided by moonlight.
The world was silent and the only sound
were the leaves in the tree’s and my feet on the ground.
Alas I was tempted by songs in my pocket
And the picture of you that hung in my locket,
But I felt that a change had grown wild in my brain
Like the seasons were changing, and so was the pain,
A stranger had challenged my withering heart
Twas the first real arousal since we’d been apart,
I looked at a distance but fantasised near
and the prospect of new love sent shivers of fear.
But she clawed like a blackbird at passions inside
And I craved her like coffee like a moon and the tide.
She danced on my gravestone, she lay on my skin
And she started a bonfire that burned from within
But the night was so lonely and the stars became shy
As the moon rode the heavens and rivers ran dry.
I looked to the shadows to picture her face
But shadows are demons that laughed in its place
And leaves brown and crisp sung tunes to my feet
The drizzle of rain arose perfumes so sweet
And the dark was forever and my thoughts took flight
She kissed me so tender in all shades of night.
But the season was April and the time was ‘not yet’
And the moonlight was kind and my destiny set.
©Eilidh G Clark
Share this:
Wheelie Bin Soup
This poem was published in the UOS Creative Writing anthology yearbook. It also appeared in an exhibition titled Poetry in Windows at the 2019 BIG LIT festival at Gatehouse on Fleet
Nicked, frae below a strummin street licht,
The muckle great bin schrinks low to the grund.
Flashes of blue and orange snap
on its rusty armour. Half foo
it rumbles tae the fit o Randolf crescent where
the pavement sinks beneath brae, bumpin
ower boulders ,beer cans and deed bracken. Joyriding.
It flips its lid to the moon.
And the moon slides behind a bramble
Bush, and the bush slips behind a tree that
sucks air from the shadows . Released.
Skirting the embankment, teeterin. Then nose-diving heed first,
puking a cocktails o last week’s cardboard shite
into the Bannock burn. Branded confetti drookit,
Dance around the plastic shell celebrating
a liquid grave.
©Eilidh G Clark
Eilidh G Clark 