By John Moody
A dandelion flavoured sun
damply dripping its dazzle
on my sky scoured
scullery table.
Orange-tinged,
coloured cork at the edges.
Solar rays soak heartwood
in the hope of placing
roots in the veins
of my sterile soil as
toothed-tongued florets of local life
pollinate nectar left to sip.
By John Moody
In a land of precious pretty
ruby roses lose their beauty.
Shatter in my folly
crave a wizard, gentle, lowly
serves me lemons, coats in honey
in a crystal glass, distilled to tawny.
Glitters in delusion, splinters
petals to crimson fragments.
Slashing lurid flickering fantasy,
into my caged & caustic fallacy.
Blooms to mindful ailments.
Balance plummets
calmly facing expiration,
when fragmented crimson
slashed my soul
dilutes my blood
in lemonade.
By John Moody
Molten silver trickles from the bowl,
slides into an oval mould, on glowing coke.
My hands heat-scarred ageing fast.
I will not keep my looks,
a bloom that will not last
as I cast metal to harden in the platter.
My skin blisters in the heat of the cooling metal’s pearl.
I’m punished for any ingot loss by weight.
The slightest drop from smelted swirl as
bitter winds fan the fire which melts the ore
cuts (the blast) into my hands,
cooling the blisters forming on my skin.
I shuffle to my hovel with my kin
as overseer crouches (in needlegrass), concealed
in his zeal as small silver cakes congeal.