Unspoken Conversation         
 
"You love me as I am, and for that grace  
I must be thankful - yet I can't forgive.
The tenderness of you, and all you give
like salt upon the wound of my disgrace.
Healed without, festers an inner scar    
- so bitterly I mourn a truer me
and fear you would not love me, were I he -
the rescuer, the helper that you are."
 
"The ugliness you show is only doubt; 
past failure cut deep, pain is its crust.                             
My kindness is no trap - but the way out....    
Happiness is ours - if you will trust!
I love you as you are, for what I see - 
is all the inner man was meant to be."
 

With the Trees
 
Tree, weaving a net to catch the sun                   
more years than I have walked --    
Can you hold that burning glory?          
Can you keep the shining one?              
We bathe at sunset,                                   
dusty halos of desire... 
           
Tree, filtering the thieving wind                                   
through bared and jaded teeth.
Who does it give your leaves to?
Why does it steal your bloom?
The scent surrounds us,
rain lashes through...
 
If we could
bask in the wind, swallow the sun: 
a storm would heal us; 
the air; be full of golden krill.
 

Elemental
 
Sky has thought: "I should be Earth"; 
burdened itself with mountains:         
sullen peaks, foundering in blueness - 
aerial firth. 
                                                            
Earth has dreamed of being heaven;
sucks in its motley shores,                 
frothing to expand like a pure sky
the oceans seven.                         
                                                     
Element's exchange allowed,
we should live in one green twilight, 
shape-shifting, scattering                                                
dead-petal cloud.
 
​
(Ruth Asch is a poet and creative prose writer, whose work is to be found printed in several anthologies, literary journals, websites, and in her early book Reflections. She is also a part-time teacher and mother of five, living in Preston, England.)                

Anxiety
It's not so much butterflies
fluttering, but corrosive bats flitting
with barbed wire wings,
venomous teeth gnawing at me,
acid laced claws tearing at my flesh,
puncturing my lungs
so that the oxygen won't stick,
the air claustrophobic in my throat.
It's a rabid fever I can't sweat out,
percolating and putrid,
and its fangs won't release me.
 

Cursed Hands
The world drowns in inky gloom,
stars blotted out by the weight.
The Midas touch in reverse,
watch as I turn everything to shit.
Every nerve numbed and dead,
my wrists beg for the blade
but settle for the cyanide smell of the pen.
Pain bleeds onto the snowy page.
A scribbled out story, a biro biopic;
a life both over-lived and under-lived.
 

(Kirsty A. Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland. Her writing has appeared in anthologies such as Landfall, A Prince Tribute and Of Burgers and Barrooms.She has also featured in several journals and magazines, including The Dawntreader, Cicada Magazine, Dundee Writes and Word Fountain. Kirsty's work can also be found online on sites such as Cultured Vultures, Atrium Poetry and Nine Muses Poetry.)

Wisdom Blooms

Without the need to label
anything
mind’s endless conversation
is a flower
and feelings rest on leaves
scattered by wind
to settle near hyacinths
and water lilies.

A bowl turned up in smile
holds the motion
of water
in an unruffled pond.
No need for misgivings
or even for dream. 
Everything is
just as it  is.


Fear of the Marketplace

Each night she prayed to a different god
or goddess.-----------This night the moon
heard her devotions......then cast a spell
with bells of silver,-----Selene’s radiance.      
Her plea was always-------------the same. 
Let me step outside----------------the door
with no hesitation,-------------free of terror.
She was a petrified oak-------------rooted
to hardwood floors----------------branches
reaching only--------------------------to wall.
No skyness------------------no earth touch
only window light-------------and the hum
of lamps.------------------------A small, self-
enclosed sanctuary-------------like prison.
Each morning-------------------she waited
for the slap--------------------of daily news
on the doorstep------------------paper boy                                             
riding off-------------------neighbor leaving                                   
for work.-------------------Hardly breathing                         
she would inch--------------open the door
bend down--------------with curled fingers           
reach around----------------------the frame                           
to nab her prize.------------------The relief                                      
of door shut--------------against the world                  
followed by-------the sour taste of failure.                 
                                              

Descent

There were chestnuts in my soup
and my heart opened wide as the Nile
in summer. I was a pyramid longing,
yearning crop of corn and cabbages,
bored by the drama of ordinary things.

I excavated bones and planets,
bore children on an upturned
heron wing through tumult and roar
yet still I feared those soot-dark,
unexamined corners within.

Through tangles of twisted logic,
I followed uncertainty in doubtful colors.
Anxiety moldered beneath a thin veneer
of calm though I stopped short of looking
directly at my night terrors,

avoided that deepest well of unceasing
dread. An amber cloud of not knowing,
no control. Until I had no choice. Until
Persephone threw me into Hades'
realm and took my shoes.

I circled my own heart, drawn into
a vortex of apparitions, archetypes 
and ebony snakes with searching
tongues–sinking in terror's quicksand
Sinking into–myself.

Thoughts frozen in the seething
black were freed once owned,
foreboding eased as dawn’s light
illuminated my mind. I heard
the laughter of surrender.


(Carol Alena Aronoff’s work has appeared in numerous journals/anthologies, won several prizes. She was twice nominated for a Pushcart, published a chapbook (Cornsilk) and 5 books of her poems: The Nature of Music, Cornsilk, Her Soup Made the Moon Weep, Blessings From an Unseen World and Dreaming Earth’s Body.)