May #4

Suits Her Just Fine

Pleasure is now

a mug of cocoa, 

an Anzac biscuit

and a fine book to read.

Well, it always was —

but she remembers too

shopping at night in Kathmandu,

or meeting that shaman in Cusco.

She remembers lovers, 

their beautiful faces

and questing minds,

including the three she married.

And oh, she remembers loss,

hands that she held

as their owners died ...

the emptiness of dead bodies.

Now her elderly cat

comes every night

to lie beside her

on the wide bed.

The bed is warm.

The cat purrs.

Pain in muscle and bone

subsides.

— Rosemary Nissen-Wade

May #3

Moonlight becomes her

The worst of alien overlords

twirls her moustache

and smiles lopsidedly.

It took many years to

perfect that smile,

without it no archenemy could ever

hold their head high.

The moustache arrived with no effort at all

the only tricky part was

deciding to embrace it rather

than depilate. 

There are more

satisfying targets in life

and snide looks make it easier

when culling is required.

Whatever set her on this path to begin with,

she is happy now at the top of the tower,

finger on the button, deciding the game.

Heroines are for fairy tales and stories,

nothing to do with real life

and that suits her just fine.

— Michele Brenton

May #2

Furnace of the Sun

His scream blasts off

from the front garden launch pad,

as sudden as 'Challenger'.

It rises through the atmosphere,

busting its burners against gravity,

to break free of Earth's embrace,

and head for the furnace of the Sun,

where its heat belongs.

The outrage of not being allowed

to run on the road

in brand new winter shoes

that clomp like astronaut boots!

His eyes glitter with tears as bright as stars,

as Granny turns from best friend
to the worst of alien overlords.

— Helen Patrice

May #1

When we go deep

I will change we to they.

Let the young and agile

do that caving thing

squeezing through

narrow clumps of rock

interring themselves in

the dark recesses

of my imagination.

I just have to shudder.

Then there are the divers.

At first writhing like fish,

later holding a spear

ahead of the face while

beginning to morph

into shark and octopus.

Heavier, dropping into

denser currents, hot water.

I take quick deep breaths.

There’s just too many depths

available on this planet.

You have to be truly committed

to plumb them, feel the fear,

act anyway, free-falling, sinking.

There is so much other pleasure

in skimming surfaces, dancing

like a dragonfly between

leaves, over river water.

Is my aversion past-driven?

Too many storms at sea,

midnight runs at gunpoint,

surgery, anaesthetised?

Luckily, memory is like

a skating rink: such grace

on thick ice! strung between

that frozen surface and

the furnace of the sun.

— Jennie Fraine