Sunday, 25 January 2015


Fan the air
wish for dust to settle.
Bring London gin
mixed in the cranberry glass.
nails bitten raw
signify an impasse.
Take ten lashes
stare down the creaking floor
Multiply crocodile tears, then sweep
them away with fleeting regard.
A murmur of starlings, iridescent,
paint a  life
into a  darkening sky .

KD 24/1/15

The Mag No. 255 is here

Sunday, 18 January 2015


you hold me
my hands reek
of pressed garlic
your coarse stubble
a blush to my face
fingernails stained black
                     an indian ink splattered shirt
                     tangos with my flour dusted apron
                     we are the disheveled
                     the  dirty lunchtime dancers
                     bright midday sun our spotlight
the daily grind
our illicit  moment grasped in a frayed collar
my hair falls in abandon to your touch
holding  my eyes you read a novel
understanding every word written there
                    a bell rings
                    a door opening in the distance
                    rain clouds start gathering at one
                    abashed i turn
                    re-pin  my wayward hair
                    and begin chopping onions.

KD 18/1/15

The others are here at magpie tales no.254

Sunday, 11 January 2015

The Reveal

photo by Elene Usdin

Filtered light
from a nondescript morning
reflected an image
joyfully satisfying
lithe stocking draped legs
twisted this way
and back round
a satisfied  smile repeated inwards
the freshly ironed
 new dress
clinched in
a waist revealed
only lately
a body
delightfully carpet sore
from ecstatically amorous gripping
the old lover returned
from the other side of the bed
the new ardor
an unexpected prize
sprung on her
with relish and enchantment  
all goals reached
gladly she packed
clothes now too big
in old cardboard suitcases
bound for goodwill.


Saturday, 10 January 2015

Today the counter hit 
hits on this blog...
with gratitude
for loyal followers
new readers
thank you

Thursday, 8 January 2015

What's past.

Candlelight reflects in the mirror
that once held your face
I cover it with jet black silk
to erase the memory.

Saturday, 3 January 2015

Serge de Nime

On entry
you are hit by the subtle
hint of damp
midst cherry lipstick stained Mayfair
reeking  menthol,
deep dance beats clash
with the gossip girls
who are biting nails
and twirling hair at the desk.

Rows of indigo blue
cast a northern cadaverous light,
stitched, riveted
and  artistically hung
ready starched
and shrunk to fit
those trendy boys
attached to willowy girls
entwined arms around hips.

Leafing  through the pairs
they start a sway in the ranks
picking  the favorites
then slope off
for a changing booth
to rearrange the fit.


A magpie tale prompt.

Friday, 2 January 2015


art credit;  Natalie Krim


watch me,
as I pass astride
my camouflaged horse,
heart fluttering,
hoping the second balloon
survives tonights final performance.