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Friday, 12 June 2026
One Poem by Linda King
Five Poems by F.S. Blake
Genius for Erotic Mischief
When we two, our bodies meet
And passions’ clasps unhinge
We relent to urges sweet
And begin our carnal binge
It starts with several playful glances
Knowing exactly what we seek
Stolen hours and stolen chances
Starting out for our peak
Hungry hands and volleys of
kisses
Our desires reach for more
The culmination of secret wishes
Our cravings crack open to
explore
The pinnacle of creative lust
Built on foundations of loving trust
Wounded
by the Lances of Nostalgia
Knight errant clutches his chest
Struck by pangs of his past
Gone are days considered his best
His current quest his last
Stabbed by opportunities lost
Longing for memories by his side
Unable to cover the cost
The joys of his past now denied
Our hero at the end of his rope
Killed by what he misses most
Last moments devoid of hope
Brought from love and kisses
Sorrow for the past, the source
Of his death, hastened by remorse.
I’ll Tell the Stars
When
stars shine down on me at night
after
the storm clouds and raindrops part,
and
stars cast their shiny brilliance across the blank
slate of
a cool new night—I’ll tell them
about
you.
They’ll
hear me whisper your name in awe
and listen
to my breathless gratitude for you
filling
my life—I’ll tell the stars all about you.
When I
look up to them after a long day
and a
short sunset, they’ll hear me shout
the joy
you’ve brought me and will catch
the
echoes of my love that shines more brightly
than
they could ever dream—I’ll tell the stars
it’s always been: you.
Serendipity
The cosmos conspiring for the benefit of our hearts
The universe unveiling its grace to us in the form of found
hours together
so that I could gaze upon your loveliness longer
and get lost in the luxury of your timeless beauty
The pressing of all possibilities
into the once clear eventuality
where it is just you and me
We soak in blissful conversations
gifted to us by benevolent gods
who smile at two mortals who’ve found riches
usually reserved for the heavens
The lucky leaps taken with wild abandon and the joys
of our smiles when we always stick the landing
The sweetness of plump
moments we wouldn’t have
were it not for this serendipity—
The world winds to a stop
so that we can wring from clocks the minutes and
measures
that serve as the infinite source of our happiness
Winter
In winter, summer heat is traded
For icy chills and skies too faded
Splashes in lakes and pools quickly swapped
For hot chocolate and cuddles as temperatures
drop
Like weather, our connection evolves through all
seasons
Annual revelations of the countless reasons
That finding each other was cosmic fate
You, my every season eternal soulmate
Five Poems by Daniel P. Stokes
THROUGH A WINDOW
A ship on the horizon
moves to Malaga
or Marabella
or some such place
upon a mission.
Each day brings changes:
loading, sailing, berthing,
swell or calm.
It has direction,
serves a purpose,
proves its worth.
But come the day it’s
deemed unfit for sea
and everything of use
is stripped for salvage
will it also be off-loaded
at an empty dock
and left to rot.
NIGHT CHOICE
The
yard debris fed the roots,
she found on Thursday morning
a single blighted fruit
dangling in the dawn haze,
impassive. Time on time
will failed his aspirations
till he wouldn't strive again.
and aimless, weary waiting for
the peace when fruit is picked,
he helped a zephyr swing him
and stretch his manic neck.
THIS MORNING
The suspicion you intuit
what I’m thinking
may be whimsy,
but this morning
when I muttered
flesh was covered bone
without a purpose,
you didn't start
or smile.
The ruins you can’t help notice as you pass,
the mill perching on a hill half-way to Maro,
today’s our target. It’s not, mind you,
a spot you’d travel far to photo.
The dirt-track, pocked with puddles
after last night’s thunder,
skirts scrub that harbours (hides?)
amorphous workshops.
We hug the hedge to let a van wedge by
and, no surprise, we get our feet mucked.
But who’d suppose up here they’d hang
a gate upon a crumbling wall
then lock it. Not curious
enough to climb, we concede
scanning from the ditch fulfils our quest.
Presuming that the path will horseshoe
we swing downwards. A pepper poking.
from a canvas greenhouse -
no one’s looking – finds your bag.
Road reached, relieved, we’re on another mission -
hotfoot home before the rain resumes.
“Lárgate, chucho!” A dog, tail under,
scuttles from a drive in our direction,
skulks onto the road as we approach
and arcs behind us. You take a biscuit
from your bag and proffer. She shies
as
from a stone. Overtly,
you place it on the pavement
and retreat. Hunger drags her slouching
almost half-way. She sniffs apart
and, slightly limping, cringes back.
We
move on with the notion
she
might follow, but when I turn again
she’s
nowhere to be seen.
Though we maintain the pace,
the
rain outruns us. Grabbling
with your hood, you murmur,
“That creature, more than likely,
has no shelter.” I shrug,
“Millions suffer worse,”
and quicken stride but can’t escape
the scene reruns in sepia
nor the suspicion had I allayed it
I’d have no need
to ply it into verse.
Separate Dreams
A kiss upon the cheek. I hear the door
close.
Footsteps crunch the gravel to the
gate.
I hang my apron on the door hook
and bring a glass of Chablis to the
couch.
Knowing, as a girl, I had potential
sufficed me. To pursue the perks
it promised, too much bother.
Yet waited, as of right, for them to
show.
Dreams, unlike goals, are fate’s
to fashion. And, if they’re not,
we’re spared the effort to employ
them,
free, when fancy takes us,
to envision them fulfilled.
**
Tonight’s contentious twaddle
is gay marriage. Queried,
I shrug, as if it’s beyond me, unfold
a borrowed Herald and reorder.
When I go home at half past nine
I’ll boil the kettle and watch
whatever she is watching on the box.
Then go to bed together and,
,
back to back, dream separate dreams
that neither needs to share.
Two Poems by Chris Bunton
The Dungeons of King Ropert
Cells in the dank dark deep,
under the castle walls.
Where the enemies of
Ropert weep and spew hate.
Villainous men of rape.
Murderers of the night.
Rangers betrayed by friends,
Soldiers who fled the fight.
Monsters of twisted guise.
A centaur with goat eyes,
chained by his horse’s hooves,
product of evil spells.
The satyr bleats for food,
wine and maiden’s soft.
Locked up for freedom
and political talk.
The giant in the stocks,
stole Ropert’s private flock
to feed his growing kids.
Children of the fallen.
The Dwarf named Ichabod,
refused to pay his tax.
His swords can cut through steel.
He’s stubborn as a mule.
The magi Lord Melbourne.
Creating twisted forms,
mixed with animals wild,
at his hospital lab.
In King Ropert’s dungeons,
rot the worst of the realm.
Mixed with those of his pride,
tortured at the king’s whim.
This wicked fallen world,
cranking out twisted spawn.
From the vilest sewers,
to the shiniest throne.
Dragon-Slayer: A Villanelle
In the beautiful forest, of golden glowing light.
The Knight Cade in armor bright, drove his steed,
to slay the dragon feasting on cattle.
To the hills of Vandar’s crystalline lake.
Where the reptilian beast has its lair,
In the beautiful forest, of golden glowing light.
Many had come to make a name of fame,
and died horrible deaths torn limb from limb,
to slay the dragon feasting on cattle.
Princess Adeline blew kisses to Cade,
to embolden him on his fearful quest,
in the beautiful forest, of golden glowing light.
The battle raged with clash of steel and claw,
Cade’s steed fell fighting, faithful to the end,
to slay the dragon feasting on cattle.
Cade stabbed the huge worm, who bit him in half,
Princess kisses useless to dying men,
in the beautiful forest, of golden glowing light;
to slay the dragon feasting on cattle.
Chris Bunton is an artist, poet, writer and blogger from Southern Illinois.
One Poem by Linda King
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