Sometimes a poem begins with a lie
stacked-up knee-length high, atop
boxes of truth

My voice, your voice:
a derelict of love cuddled to sleep
by the furry warmth of deceit

Let’s play a flute to the past –
when we bathed in minuets of happiness;
amidst dry patches of polluted tears Continue reading

By Richie Maccs

Tell me when it gets dark
I want to go outside and play
With crickets in the owlish night;
Skin foxes under the weeping moon.
Raptors are home to roost, aflutter,
Amidst hawks biting grains
Beneath the empty granary.
Harvest songs sit silently in old books,
The fields have been swept clean
By fiendish wind – afore the storm. Continue reading

By Richie Maccs

Their bones dance in the wind,
skulls rolling haltingly in the dust
to rest a kilometer away in dry river beds,
amidst piles of rot and souls in commune,
that hug and hide their faces
from the disdain of the land that bore them.
The black feathery beasts of the wild
circle, as if haunted, and map the expanse
for the freshness of death.
They watch bemused at the hopelessness
of children crawling on their bellies defeated,
and parents blankly stare – tears. Continue reading