Category Archives: Poetry

Your Eyes — a poem

It is your eyes that pierce me
Bright baby blue
In Sicily they marked you
Erroneously
As German
In Jordan, both men and girls followed you
Hoping to see your wonderful eyes again
It is your eyes that hold me
Windowing your soul
In your much loved face

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

 

 

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Hidden Dragon

In deep time when the air was fat with moisture and warmth
you soared in low gravity, swooped over and along deep Marineris
scrabbled amongst rust red rocks, seeking the treasure of tasty morsels.
Then, as the air fizzed away to trail behind your little planets orbit
and the planetary heart chilled to immobility
so you chilled and slowed.
Settling down to a hibernation, waiting the warmth of a spring
that has never come.

Blanketed by wind borne dust you have been slumbering
in your crater nest.
Now those selfsame winds have scoured away your cover
revealing your raised  scales.
Massive glider, hidden dragon.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

(Thank you Nesa, for the idea!)

47_bunge_crater_dunes-br2

Bunge Crater Dunes — Fans and ribbons of dark sand dunes creep across the floor of Bunge Crater in response to winds blowing from the direction at the top of the picture. The frame is about 14 kilometers (9 miles) wide. This image was taken in January 2006 by the Thermal Emission Imaging System instrument on NASA’s Mars Odyssey orbiter and posted in a special December 2010 set marking the occasion of Odyssey becoming the longest-working Mars spacecraft in history. The pictured location on Mars is 33.8 degrees south latitude, 311.4 degrees east longitude. Image Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/Arizona State University

 

Dockside

Neon shattered voices ring across dockside
joshing, laughing.
A gaggle of youth, glories of hair and beard,
jaunt along a just washed walkway,
looking for nothing,
arms linked, heads thrown back
deep laughs mixed with shrill cries.
Pocked skin drawn
tight over smashed cheekbone,
hair frizzy and sculpted
or flopping over acid kissed eye.
Wide grins stretch mouths
faces marred by occupational hazard
adorned with tattoo.
Brightly painted prostheses refract
glitter, crack together
as shoulders nudge hard
in proto-embrace or witty retort.
Tonight, youth’s incandescent joy uplifts,
they will launch into the dark
escape this gravity well tomorrow.
Other crews drift along
washed by unfathomed
tides of rumour and gossip
pushed-pulled to entertainments
you cannot, would not, share.
Our girls and boys josh on
exchanging joyous insults,
impervious to all.
An enclave of companionship
in a lonely night.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond 

First pubished in Wizards in Space 3, a print journal, https://wizardsinspacemag.com/

I’m at Eastercon (the UK national Science Fiction convention) this weekend, with paintings in the Art Show……..

The Colour of Dragons

The colour of dragons
Depends

Sweet green for new hatchlings
To hide in high grasses

Black and red for an Emperor
Or a burner of crops
Many turn as gold as their treasure
Perhaps part of ageing

What colour a city dragon
Lurking on rooftops?

In Paris, creamy white as the buildings
In Berlin and London
Perhaps a glassy hue
Criss-crossed

In Amsterdam?
Turquoise and purple
With scarlet undertones………

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

I’m at Eastercon (the UK national Science Fiction convention) this weekend, with paintings in the Art Show……..

P1220291

 

Poem : Our Secret

Take the third turn over there
by the weeping willow at the barren stream.
Turn sharp now into brightness
or you will miss the crease,
that flaw in time’s weave you must push through
(sometimes my shoulder gets stuck, but I persevere).
Once through, stay low, part and peer through high grasses
watch the herds roll past.
Tusks upraised, immense cinnamon woolly hulks,
regally righteous, grassland behemoths,
lords of the plains
(yes, indeed, the land is flatter here that it was back now).
Be ready for the noise when they cry out,
it reverberates all through your bones
oscillating ears to numbness.
The hulk and bulk of them is prodigious
and worth the squeeze.
Whether it is worth the panic
when you finally realise
the directions home are missing?

Is up to you.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

First published in  Crannóg 49, the Irish print journal, http://www.crannogmagazine.com/

Friday poem: Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

 

by Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)