Heart’s Ease
These death masks hung above my bed
as boy, untired, but clocked upstairs,
There always shades, those ghosts portrayed,
this shade replacing former frills.
Who owns this deep-eyed staring face,
as if hung-over, blushed with bruise,
for shame these blooming hanging heads?
No heart’s ease, drift beneath their gaze -
the day’s too short as turn to sleep,
but gently swaying in the draught,
car headlights eerie ceiling play,
as cold chill slithers down my spine.
So where the calm medicinal,
supposed sooth healing properties?
In haze of doze, blurred images,
half-seen as if through frosted blear,
shapes mangled in my mingled tears,
low-lie life downing to drowse lids,
awaiting moment of the pounce.
Violas, charming, it is said;
mine violent, as charms spelled out.
Que Sera
His workshop was in Coventry,
the city blitzed during the war,
his family amongst those killed.
Emerging decades afterwards,
Enigma, Nazi code machine,
had been cracked and raid known about.
Maintaining secrecy was all;
decision made, Godiva ride,
for laid bare as the city paid.
And now devised, new time engine,
machine that made Time Lords of us,
so we would know and could avert?
The future brought to present time,
a gift unwrapped if so desired,
disease where interventions cure?
But who is ‘us’ and who are ‘we’,
as key too, be that future will,
when time stands still, tomorrow now?
In his clock hands, as ne’er before
the fate of more than Coventry;
so that is where he sent himself,
forever silent, Que Sera.
Pooling Resources
Accustomed, coast our weekly width,
until the unexpected falls;
some sudden dive, slap bellyflop,
or foreign body floating by -
watery grave as just passed, died -
but otherwise, routine applies.
Slow crawl, then breast, now butterfly,
they’re making waves for those sedate;
this aqua pool marine in tone,
sees shallow wading through resist
in complementary mix of styles,
both impulse, intuition drives.
It being of the blood as pulse -
some stimulus gives impetus
and quickened spirit finds release;
but intuition’s measured, more,
an instinct, deeply rooted, core,
heartfelt as golden veins are mine.
The waters broke when we were born,
delivered, water-baby due;
resources pooled from genes and here
as nature, nurture play their part.
The source, a springboard, mind or soul,
to turn our width to greater length.
First published by The Ekphrastic Review, November 2025
The Sound of Silence
Alarm clock missed, I overslept -
it failed to wake me - though it set,
as did morn chorus, cursèd dawn;
my noisy neighbour kept her cool,
as baby on the other side.
Now what had muffled outside sounds?
But peering pane, clogged street was bare -
diverted traffic? But why and where?
Uneasy with this no-fly-zone
in operation overhead -
for normal drone, incoming flights,
had left me dozing well past time -
so thus it was I stepped outside,
alerted to a stranger world.
I phoned a friend, but network down -
indeed a brick without a sound.
I drifted down the avenue,
its limes unmoved, still, heavy air.
But where had busy city gone,
the chatter on the airwave cache,
both clash and clatter, environs,
curbed dash and batter on the kerb,
bus pyroclastic exhaust flow,
with smash and shatter, accidents?
It was my heart that I could feel;
its beating, thudding through my bones
and teeth, its final call in jaw,
eustachian tube, tubular bells.
And then it dawned - a dream or death,
except that rhythmic pump felt near;
I wiped my eye as lifted lid -
dead weight beside me, both were true.
First published by Spillwords, August 2025
A deer passed by…
L'après-midi d'un faune, dream on,
in sultry, sensual afternoon;
a tail wisp, fly whisk, as it wakes.
How long before it passes by
the sylvan safety where its lie,
days, years until it passes on?
With nymphs around this woody glade
the dappled site of light and shade,
a camouflage, both real and not.
Of hamadryads, canopy -
descending creepers’ canapés -
this would be haunt of Ariel.
So, quiet in this downwind place,
as watch the deer, but give it space,
ear flicker as inborn defence.
This wood of Greenman branching out
to host what’s dearest round about,
the creature comforts of his life.
Ravel, Debussy followed on,
the music that we know, tips tongue,
because its mood just fits its name.
Sometimes we wish the deer passed by
without stopover, as we sigh
to see fruits of our labours’ fate.
First published by Medusa’s Kitchen, August 2025
Owlness
I’ve seen more owls on printed page
than ever branch, or barn indeed;
in literature, and children’s tales,
awaiting eyes to read the scene.
With space for waiting - waiting room -
before its zoom down on its prey;
without a prayer that gracious glide,
the slide that causes flap below.
Just long enough, that owl who waits
in contemplation of the flight,
the striking site to execute,
by featherlite the quarry snatched;
no weight until that clutch applied,
fierce claws to pierce, blow breath away -
eclipsing moonlight by its span,
but brief, dark momentary, stark.
’Fore bone, thick fur, bring pellets’ score,
the brood, bare patient, pleads for more.
With nightingale argument brewed,
from Middle English poetry,
for owl peers through its literature -
that page again, owlness debate -
as with the Parliament of Foules;
but reading such will have to wait.
First published by Medusa’s Kitchen, October 2025
Liminal
It is the change she’s going through,
with Lewy taking charge of her;
unwelcome partner, her estate -
no marriage of convenience.
She talks a lot, but to herself,
soliloquy as commentary,
performance in her benefit,
though none she’ll know or profit from.
She sings those songs of Sunday School -
that record left some years ago -
but now dredged up, deep memory,
the liminal for seventh age.
‘Jesus friend of little children.
be a friend to me’ synapse chimes,
as do the scrapbooks of her youth.
but not late stranger family.
Old order passing, customs new,
though past and now unknown to her,
the present gift but poor reward,
save unaware it’s been unwrapped.
If eyes are wells into her soul.
’tis mine that brim for vacant stare
that greets me - pupils in her class,
though nothing learn, as if downcast.
First published by The Soliloquist, October 2025
Sleight Knowledge
Here’s merlin swirling overhead,
a smaller falcon, bird of prey,
while ’copter, whirling rotor blades,
the merlin squadron overseas.
Welsh bard and prophet, soon to be
the wizard legend, Arthur’s court;
magicians all in fancy’s flight,
from wand and wind as wander land.
Pendragons, legends of the Celts,
Arthurian by all accounts -
save those where hero of the Welsh -
illusionists - as myths I fear.
Devant they say before my time,
but met each day I practised French;
in front of all he staged his play,
folk mesmerised, what seemed to see.
When trained at London platform, youth,
saw conman with his ‘find the queen’;
as knowing folk, so confident,
fetched wallets from within their coats,
he moved that card, in tromp l’oeil,
so won good cash till crowd caught on,
then left his pitch for somewhere else.
That trickster, blatant, knew his pack,
observant, his diverting skills;
the modus of the conjured move,
for sure we know what logic tells.
Though loving mushrooms in a soup,
I’ve never met the magic kind;
but verse and fellow words, well met,
are best magicians for a broth.
First published by Medusa’s Kitchen, October 2025
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com
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