Monthly Archives: April 2021

Apples

Apples crisp crunchy
Apples
Apples are my friend

Doctor’s bane
Totally sane
Crisp crunchy apples

Crispy crunch ’til the skin is no more
Crunchy crisp straight through to the core
I think I’ll have one more

One more
One more
One one one one more more more more

Apples
Watch out for those cyanide seeds

©2021 H.K. Longmore

Fetal

Curled up in a ball
Wrapped up in a hammock
Swaying in the salty breeze
Saline stained cheeks turn salty red
Red ball dips below the water line

Or, buried in the sand
Naught but head
Protrudes from mock grave
Sand a bearable weight of being
Brings calm to anxious limbs
Deepens once shallow breaths

Huddled ’round a 55 gallon drum
Fire burning low
Fingerless gloves the compulsory style
Company sells tragedy cheap
But Rails sing a compelling song
To be part of the wave

Buried in thoughts of death
Unbidden
He seeks new life

©2021 H.K. Longmore

Iago: Ambushed

Dark the night sky,
Fell, the foul zephyr.
Brackish black water
Broken by two beady eyes.

Iago has returned.

Creeping up the coast,
He seeks to insert himself
Where least welcome is his self;
They’d prefer him to roast.

He hears a patrol
Coming down the lane,
Hides among barrels of petrol;
They’ll not have his mane.

The patrol stops,
Blocking his intended path.
To avoid the cops
He’ll have to subdue his wrath,

And take an alternate route.
Sneaking down a back alley,
He has no time to dally;
When bright lights remove all doubt:

He’s been followed.

Spinning ’round,
He sees the patrol closed in behind;
In front lie the hounds,
He sees he is confined.

“Welcome to my table,”
Greets the queen,
Gesturing to that of fable,
Round and now white and green.

Ambushed.

At the Siege Perilous,
Sits formidable foe:
Sir Galahad looks ready to row.
Iago takes a seat, voice querulous.

“At this table, all you have to say is heard by all,”
the queen instructs.
Iago’s face falls:
This rule his scheming obstructs.

“You are now cursed to always meet at this table,
Every time you set foot upon our shores.
Think not that you are able
To remove this curse from your core.”

His vitriol laid bare,
He tells the reasons
For despair;
But it’s not his season.

“So you have naught but speculation
To lay before this confabulation?
Each of your points in turn countered?”
The queen sees his plan has foundered.

“Then you are dismissed,
Thank your for your time.
Now back into the brine,
Return to the abyss.

You’ll not be missed.”

©2021 H.K. Longmore