Linnet Phoenix is a poet based in Bristol in the South West of England. She has been writing poetry for years. She also enjoys riding her Icelandic horse in the countryside.
The Monkey Puzzle
The rainfall is softer this morning. I don't know what that will mean. That the clouds took pity a while, that the dirty rubber mark sky lied. The monkey puzzle stands resolved, accepting of its alien abduction life. Its height speaks of a secret history. The tales it could tell ring deep. I wonder how deep the rain shadows fall from the witching hour dark peaks. Do eagles dream of what ocean floor might be, if they could fly under water? And if I spoke to spell the words aloud, would my black boots be ruby slippers? If this tornado carried me over the bow, would you show me, how to find home?
I open up the dark dust-free covers to find a crisp, snow white light sheet greeting me with your wily wise words. Lying sly spread out, neatly tied up in magic maiden metaphor. I let my inner eye slide slowly over, appraising and admiring across it all, then tugging threads gently to undress. The first stanza is now shorn shirtless, with muscles hard ripped of any rhyme. You carry me easily in rhythmic sound. I kiss words salty spoken with lips wet, follow with trembling finger tipped line along clavicle curve to cheek, rest down on a treasure chest, feeling for heartbeat. Pump pulses in punctuated palpitations, rising uneven as lines undulate under emotions growing entwined, grafted in carnal comma breathless end stops. A naked normality looks newly backlit. Your sweat tastes of a salted caramel bursting on tongue-tingling taste buds to lose ourselves in ink formatted meld. At the point of performing a volta, flipping us over, we continue page curl cavorting. Inside the literary loquacious dream tide this orally orgasmic overload, in written code draws smoke like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. I lie backwards pillows ploughed in pages now furrowed.
He tells me I am queen of doing nothing. I used to protest against the slippery slur. But nowadays I lean back with a sun beam. It seems this garden in my mind is grand. If procrastination tastes of vanilla cheese cake, then I am lazily licking that spoon. The words will come if I tease just enough so eyes slant shut, peripheral vision used. I consider my imagination travel choices, swimming rivers to climb those mountains. But ever returning to this shady glade seat, leaning in the faux silence of pen scratch. This tree trunk is so comfortably gnarled as if long planted in the knowledge of us. Sure as dusk falls, dawn rises in rotation. The world will keep on turning without us.