Blog of Oonah V Joslin -- please visit my Parallel Oonahverse at WordPress

where I post stories and poems that have not been seen elsewhere - also recipes and various other stuff. http://oovj.wordpress.com/

and see me At the Cumberland Arms 2011









Friday 30 October 2020

October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No30

Today a trilogy of unconnected poems -- perhaps something for everyone. The first relates to the Northumberland coast just north of Bamburgh (click the title link to see more.) 

The second is an actual nightmare I had during lockdown earlier this year. 👀  

The last is -- entertaining.


The White Stag 


 The white stag stands

in two dimensions

between land and sea, sea and sky,

air and rock.


Whoever placed him there

'twixt myth and reality,

understood those boundaries

to which we must adhere,


taboos, thresholds

that should not be crossed,

portals to the past that seamless, disappear,

protecting everything the modern world has shed.


But on some moonless night, unseen he turns,

skips lightly through a crevice to that other place,

to dance with myths and legends and return

at first light to the sight of mortal men.


The white stag placed here just beyond our reach

for us to yearn, and learn

the light and darkness

mysteries may teach.



Washing

Washing my hands

Washing my hands in a sink

Washing my hands in a sink full of birds

in a sink full of birds rainbow bright

rainbow bright colours

rainbow bright colours fading

colours fading and dying and the birds

and the birds begin to die

birds begin to die in my hands

my hands covered in faded feathers

hands covered in faded feathers and blood.


Washing hands in a sink of dead birds, faded feathers and blood.


I look in the mirror

but the mirror is empty.



Living with Logic


If I hear a thud on the bedroom floor

the creaking of an upstairs’ door

or footsteps on the landing coming close.


When I hear that tread upon the stair

that makes me call out, ‘Who is there?’

if I suspect in short, that it’s a ghost,


I’ll tell no one. I won’t insist

my husband call an exorcist

or that a priest be brought to calm my fears.


His scepticism would enlist

the aid of a psychiatrist

besides


we’ve lived in a bungalow for years.