Category: Poetry

The End of the World- By Kendrickmusicfreak

Mark Mark did a fart

Blew the whole world apart

The End


Grass- Kendrickmusicfreak

Grass how you can change the land

Spring, the grow and wetness of the grass, the promise of more to come

Summer so green and lush, the smell of summer ascent upon my senses

Autumn, the flowers start to go, the beckoning of darkness to come

Winter, so wet and weary , the lost of soul that is winters darkness


Once red and always on
the plaid-lined lower shelf
of the cupboard under the sink,
for weak juice and milky tea.

The mug smells of hot tussock
that breathes like baking.
It tastes of the Belgian biscuits
my mother made one summer

and looks like black-striped pink
geraniums. It feels like feet
swilling sand in a bucket of water
gone warm, sounds like the pound

that resembles wind at first, the tide.
It is full of the frustration of playing
children’s Scrabble instead of
the real thing with darker squares

and no pictures, the tired
comfort and outrage of being
put to bed before the fire
is put out, while other children

climb the hill’s seeping shadows,
feeling their way under wire
fences and over dead sheep;
screams flashing like torches.

There are orange plastic mugs
and magenta geraniums and dry
biscuits, tussocks, torchlight
here—but what is the point

in saying that mug is a similar
size or I learnt to swim by
walking my palms along the floor
of a lagoon identical to that one?

It only marks the distance between
here and then. Sometimes I am far
from the country that no longer exists;
sometimes I feel close to nothing.

This mug is not a likeness, a simile.
It is the same mug I drank from then.
I hold it now, but the trees are whiter—
bones clean except for silver leaves

the shape of my father’s and my husband’s
dry smiles. One is here, one is then. I am
tense now. Unsure of when we are. Cold tea
burns my lips. I politely ignore everyone.


A tiny angel enters the room
in a halo of sungold dust motes.
In Mary’s ear: a high-pitched annunciation
she doesn’t at first quite catch.

It tries to tell her she’s a sweet-hot stunner,
drives life itself crazy with her
scent of coconut and maple,
mango body-butter, coffee,
beach salt, beach towel, sunscreen,
last night’s sauvignon, and see,
the succulent curve and bend of her …

The angel’s touch brushes her
with a faint stirring wind,
the hairs on the back of her neck
quiver like harp strings.

Troubled at these sayings
Mary looks over her shoulder,
asks, who’s there?
Swift as a night nurse
the angel plunges the syringe;
its small prick enters,
the quick sting lifts,
flustered Mary is left
with a visible white swelling
that comes to nothing
but this minor, red-capped
princeling of disappointment,
an itch that irritates:
incarnation of her own
and the world’s
deep imperfections.

To Atthis by Sappho

My Atthis, although our dear Anaktoria
lives in distant Sardis,
she thinks of us constantly, and

of the life we shared in days when for her
you were a splendid goddess,
and your singing gave her deep joy.
Now she shines among Lydian women as
when the red-fingered moon
rises after sunset, erasing

stars around her, and pouring light equally
across the salt sea 
and over densely flowered fields;

and lucent dew spreads on the earth to quicken
roses and fragile thyme
and the sweet-blooming honey-lotus.

Now while our darling wanders she thinks of
lovely Atthis's love,
and longing sinks deep in her breast.

She cries loudly for us to come!  We hear,
for the night's many tongues
carry her cry across the sea.