November 22-28, 2021: Poetry from Paul Smith and Jim Murdoch

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Paul Smith

Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has traveled all over the place and met lots of people. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. His poetry and fiction have been published in Convergence, Missouri Review, Literary Orphans and other lit mags.

The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by Paul Smith and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Your Brasierre

Your brassiere
your bra
your bra
your white bra
your simple white bra
your bra with no ornament or gewgaw
your bra that needs nothing
except you in it
with its straps
its cups
its underwire
its back with the five clasps
you reaching behind you
undoing the hooks
one by one
your fingers
deftly
undoing them
time slowing to a crawl
each clasp not making a sound
your bra
opening
your breasts
flush with pulchritude
blue-veined
your bra slipping down to your midriff
your breasts
your bra undone
the hot afternoon
the wind still
the clock incoherent
your dark continent
your bottom
your white bottom
your under band hem
your cradle
you

Jim Murdoch

Jim has been writing poetry for fifty years and has graced the pages of many now-defunct literary magazines and websites and a few, like Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Lake and Eclectica, that are still hanging on in there. For ten years he ran the literary blog The Truth About Lies but now lives in relative obscurity in Scotland with his wife and (occasionally) next door’s cat. He has published two books of poetry, a short story collection and four novels.

The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by Jim Murdoch and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The War and After

You vanished in a second.
That was all it took.
I blinked and then
you were gone.

A bird landed where you’d been.
I shooed it away.
A man stopped to
eat his lunch.

I asked him: “Could you move, sir?”
Soon a construction
crew arrived to
erect a

monument but not to you.
A dog came along
and peed on it.


First appeared on the Jasmin’s Heart Blog.

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