Highly Commended Poet – Polly Richardson

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    Sometimes

    I don’t want to take my clothes off.

    Sometimes I want to pitch a tent to new moon

    but I can’t glide.

    I don’t want to take my clothes off,

    Sometimes I look to river depths deeper than sea

    I don’t want to take my clothes off

    sometimes,

    keep the layers stitched, knit you

    fondle fabric, stroll fingers as if curvature of spine,

    Sometimes.

    I don’t want to take my clothes off.

    I want to tap dance to bowing tree, rest on leaf

    pillows already soaked,

    fly, jumping vibrations from the sleeping

    hold rain -drop cupping oceans.

    Sometimes I want to walk bare into you leaving

    foot prints on yesterday’s sands

    Sometimes.

     

    Apple

    To the core of nothing and everything
    Divinity of ingest cidering bees, non -angelic in waggle,
    Unlike moon-shine bootlegged, no peels fermented
    After the pulp revealed in revealing itself.
    Eve didn’t bite, Adam swallowed choking swollen pride
    Denying themselves  true calling
    Needs of blossoming to bear fruit,

    to stuff skin crackled
    to toffee fest, dripping on lips before hardening,
    to bake to perfection in heated silence in
    bitter-sweet nocturnal juice, and gorged

     

    And So

    I snatch these moments

    keep them

    on the hill, the imprints.

    Each tree, circling

    will bear witness to this

    Chinese whisper, mere ramblings

    stretching to distant blue mountains

    further than the edge of edges,

     

    I will breathe them out

    with bovine song,

     

    Tumble down this rolling eminence

    waved by butter- cup

    dancing meadow,

    The thousand smiles’ embanked,

    this spot,

    in each grass blade bursting to seed,

    time to release

    time to release

    yet I want to hold

    interlock as if fingers – like before,

    bare, devour,

    unawares of decaying root.

     

    Beach

    Polished toes crusted from

    morning castles, lost factor

    flying frisbee melting skin to lobster overdone,

     

    Spread

    sink under rolling water-break

    in hailing tomorrows,

     

    Eyes blink in floating cotton balls

    shaping evening descent,

    duelling warmth and dusking skies,

     

    last rays kiss skin, wrapping hugs

    supping summer wine

    coursing through each pore,

     

    stretched to finger tips.

    And that one plucked from sands

    for the memory box.

     

    Fragments 

    Mondays stubble left its mark

    in between folds,

    Still lingering

    in moon- light parting silk,

    kissing breast

    catching reflection on cold tile

     

    longing,

     

    savouring taste touched, stolen

    fragmented moments

    in the aftermath of his fragrance

    Under ribs sang sweetly

    fondling time,

    shadows fall as rotating earth

    moved seconds licking lips

    skimming stones.

                                               

                                                                       Black boots

    …………………………………………………….I don’t like black boots

    …………………………………………………….I don’t know why, two pairs

    …………………………………………………….of brown leather ones sit in

    ……………………………………………………….the corner waiting- holding

    ………………………………………………………..breath. Dung embedded soles,

    ……………………………………………………ferment away creating god knows

    ……………………………………………………what – culturing, perhaps new life.

    …………………………………………………Smells waft, mix with rose air and

    ……………………………………………hints of orange- balm, sending me float-

    ……………………………………ting, perhaps high! Each crease molded

    …………………………….to exacted muscle curve freckled with chestnut

    …………………………..hair, the night before the night before muscles

    ……………flexed-held. Something quiet alluring, the stillness,

    …………of it, left to right left away right, days dust settles

    slight only their buffness still tease. What awaits those

    zips once undone, spreading wide to take what comes

    …………………………………………………..No time for gentle. Firm grip, yank up, close,

    ………………………………………………………………………………..Heels down, squeeze

     

     

    I’ve never told you this before

    Inside

    I am dragon. I am fire. I am stealth

    Dream of gorging throats

    Crawling out of mouths

    Mothing skin

    Moult you,

    Around around, screeching wildly

    smudging,

    And to river you go

    Clap 123

    Heron squawk in arrogant annoyance

    I am. I am.

    I am,

    Flight.

     

    Closure   

    From grasping nude

    to barely sun,

    Moon -dreams jump.

    I held you inside

    despite wrenching sting. I carry.

    Faulting only when you

    blind my stride, spiting razor

    so, it pierces just enough

    for your pus to fill. I lance,

    drain you before the rot and

    stench.

    And I

    And I see rain drop, hear its worlds

    replace my hat splashing

    Spit mirage.

     

    Said the Bed

    Down holes, credos to wall,

    indentations of you remain

    in echoes of thunderous grumble,

     

    I – still,

     

    Fold mummers to four corners;

    absorb gasping fist- fall

    dampness over moon –catching tears,

    sink foetal roll

    gestating time

     

    the mother

    the child, the woman

     

    Howl,

    the anguish,

    the poetry dent- lost loves

    contentment hushed,

     

    Stripped

     

    bare

     

    Pages turn, pages turn,

    that dance

    of staggering giggles

    Bridget jones killing springs,

    Vertical notes strum to

    falling whispers and lighten bolts- greased.

     

    Far cry from Oklahoma

    that man from Snowy River,

     

    sunsets rising glows

    foetal roll, blink yesterdays-

    that butterfly basking

    Dandelions open, some ready seed

    to the breeze

    and that dog hair,

    I hold

    in memory foam.

     

    Breath

    Defining life and finality

    we are nothing,

     

    nothing

     

    without rhythmic ins and outs.

     

    Arriving starkers,

    slipping,

    in to vast wonderment

    from primal pant pushing.

     

    Pure without sabotage

    our inner amazon gifting sustenance

    and summer rains

    and yet

    like grains of sand,

    it slips away

    blackened.

     

    No matter the hands that tries to hold it.

     

    Breath

    The last raspy note gurgled;

     

    The

    final rise

    and fall.

     

     

     

     

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