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AnnMarie Eldon: Two Poems

invane | passtoral



A wind throbs in the blue.
A tornado pumping in the ducts.
A crescendo of phrases
tessellating windows,
sweat catching
evaporating yet congealing.
Pores crack bearing up
but lacking the


A wind strives in throes of alphabet curses. Grass
suddenly so. Unfettered, slammed, whispering
recursive slices not all honed. It is the night
my Lordís flesh is scraped from my tongue.
Walls turn ears. More so doors, glances
barriers. The mystic is made of flesh
and bone.

Shutters sense stone. Misdirected phonemes
gather in guttering, choked with meaning.
Portals in, screaming. Alone. Alone. What
could be grit but flesh and bone?

One evening, my mouth devoid, stuffed
with shadows, shadows glowing pride
this burgeoned spluttering. Promises
aback, my Lord sloughed from off
my reasoning. Memories flowing
ablack and cries. Lies like no
lies had been. Undertow.

Reckonings, strung out, shining,
spittle like a crown of thorns. A
diminuendo spewing my Lord
my Lord, save me. Let me
taste You. Stars, the mysticís heavings. Mystic, how cruel
are the hands that grasp, how low is the spirit
come unfastened. Nonsense poured rattling
under ground. The weeds so nitrous
dead deeds fouled by the dawn threat. My Lord

not light yet, my ache a forlorn cystic singularity.
The blessed yearn and suffocate on
grace. The mystic but flesh
and bone and yet alone
and alone. My Lord
has no face
and withers on my tongue.
Nerves reek of the dying, proclamations
hurl our grief under tables on ledges whipping curtains
cleaving closets broken hearts and cheap facades deposited to
flesh and bone.


Speak grace. A wind throbs in the blue.
A tornado pumping in the ducts so
hell, no. A crescendo of phrases
tessellating windows, sweat
catching ions, evaporating
yet congealing through
pores cracks bearing
up but lacking
the necessary

to shore up tones. Screeches adumbrate my shoulders'
yoke, their kelson snapped to sobs, nipples asunder, a Voice fucks
like a flood — wisdom, pearls imperilled spatting stripping appealing drips
scrawls in blood
tendentious concupiscence down
my back and this back,
more so and flesh
and bone and
more so.

The mystic snatches The Word heaves melts pealing silence. Kneels.
My Lord give me no bread but flesh and bone now
spinal resistances keening
My Lord, creel your catch


A wind in the blue
a tornado in the ducts
a crescendo of phrases tessellating sweat
a scithering of how so cracking pores: the mystic
being hushed flesh and bone not

hallowed innuendo


Itís that time of year again.
Elder pre-berried on tree,
black-to-be, stranded,

alike cow parsley.
Hay fever and the real
hay fall away where holes
get in, not

of our loosening
but vacancies that
families make by a look.

Too many if only's.
Space enough which may fill
a heart with blood

but not quench
ache. How I want pfoof
you to blow dandelion
seeds, tell me itís one oíclock
late, very late
time for

eight there
and mouths to feed.

Itís that time of year again.
Summer a seam
running cooler as earth turns

and we each
feel green.

Poet's Biography:
  AnnMarie Eldon was born in Birmingham, England and raised in one tiny 2 up 2 down house in a terrace which inspired her nom de plume. She has been in previous incarnations, wife, psychotherapist, corporate wizardatrix. To September 2001 she divided her sense of irony between homes in the US and UK; she now attempts her escape from mediocrity within the confines of a picturesque Oxfordshire town, juggling hormones, various children and dogs.

Her work has, is or will be found at Aught, Can We Have Our Ball Back, Conspire, Del Sol Review, Duct Tape Press, Fire Magazine, Junket, Impetus, Locust, Marlow Poets, Meeting of the Minds, Melic Review, Mipo, Mipo-Print, Muse Apprentice Guild, Niederngasse, Numbat, Ophelia's Muse, PW Review, Reflections 2003, Salty Dreams, Snow Monkey, Tryst, Wandering Dog, Write-Away!, Writers' Hood.

She writes: "Poetry should. Generally, it does. But it should do more than do. It's been said there's more poetry on the internet than porn. I'm interested then in who is doing the counting. Poetry counts. It is the only struggling, yet surviving interstitial art form. Words are where the cracks get in and this world needs all the wormholes it can find."

© 1999 - 2003, by the poets featured herein.