July 7-20, 2014: Rosalind J. Lee and Russ Cope

Rosalind J. Lee and Russ Cope

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Rosalind J. Lee
rossum8@yahoo.co.uk

Bio (auto)

Rosalind J. Lee is a self published author and poet, who writes in Mattishall, which is the largest village in the county of Norfolk, United Kingdom.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Rosalind J. Lee and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Wave Length Grass…

It’s not funny how easy it is to murder without sound,
an easy victim. Watch how they never comprehend –
the slightest whim, the musical clues, see how they dream.
.
The night romantic, the cobweb trees, the wave length grass,
a perfect night for a long wished end. News of the war:
over an old wound. When the moon rises, the Screech Owl
.
leaves the mast of the ship rises in seas of wind, his wings a curtain
closed, open, closed, his heart mirrors mine, each beat unsought.
"Are you mine?" He calls, to the clothed rat below, "Mine, Mine?"
.
It isn’t love, this perfect end. Far simpler than that, a continuation;
a meal caught alive. The rat reaches up and snaps, "No. I’m not!"
Too late, his squeak too high for the Owl’s ears, simply dies.
.
The Owl caught in exploration of ties, and laces, and buttons:
almost cries, frustration in spite curled claws, "Meals should not be wrapped!"
Leaves the bones, bent. His motion spent, he spirals to the Tao stream.
.
Thunder by: thunder by; the night races and threads the stars, in dainty glaze.
The air moves, the light bends, refracts, expands, widens and splays
as a woman does, in coitus, to the man she loves.


Ants…

Ants abound
born under ground
caught mid action
pro-active in a cola can.


 


Russ Cope
rpoetcope@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Russ Cope is a new poet from Bluefield, West Virginia.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Russ Cope and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Kin

That woman over there
Squatting behind the truck
is not my skin
not mine, I swear
even though she calls my
name and even though
we look alike
we are not related
Pardon me as I get in
the truck with her.


Java

grinding early morning smell full of energy gives me hope helps me remember
who I am and when I drink too much everyone knows about it I talk about my
favorite tv shows and how they feature antiheroes and tell stories about God and
balloons and parades


This Is Not Mama

I know she looks like mama
smells like mama
but the cooking’s off
something bad is in the oven.