Linnet Phoenix

Linnet Phoenix is a poet who lives in North Somerset, England. She has been writing poetry for years. Her work has previously been published in Impspired, Punk Noir Magazine, Raven Cage Zine and Open Skies Quarterly. She also enjoys horse-riding.


 What creature have I become?
 Curled tight I lie, hugging myself.
 Precious time is mine to waste.
 I curse my underbelly exposed.
 That I can scratch out clear skies, 
 tear the sun's eye from its socket 
 to dissipate these radiating aches
 should come as no sharp surprise.
 Feel heartfelt and twice folded. 
 A letter written in black ink bleeds
 all colours of a rainbow's prism
 held aloft in rain-soaked dictate.
 Without a prayer to raise hope.
 Nietzsche's pin-pricked bubble 
 left God deflated, limp, lifeless.
 The angels drifting as homeless.

Stick Horses

 We never rode wooden stick horses 
 not us, our majestic imaginary steeds
 finer by far, all bright colours glowing
 as silken manes flowed up our faces.
 We trotted back tracks, through twittens
 cantered cajoling each other onwards,
 heard heart hoof beats in each given gait
 our footprints felt all across those fields.
 Down to the Dell where we would dwell
 wonderfully wasting our free rein hours,
 our creativity carved kingdoms on trunks
 of fallen trees we jumped or rested upon.
 The game we played contained no limits
 free flow words gathered as we grew
 stronger, lives lived longer, brought new
 loves. We rode our final farewell slowly. 

Liquorice Deep

 This morning's light is liquid.
 Its daffodil drips are falling down 
 coating the gaps on sable tarmac. 
 Leafy shadows sprawl mosaic carpet
 beneath warming tyre tread.
 The engine hums a deeper tune. 
 Torque tongues lick this hill climb,
 vibrations a soft reminder 
 this pull is not without horsepower.
 Over the stone-faced wall
 the woods are liquorice deep,
 a sweet invite to cool tranquillity.
 This momentary escape 
 a break from routine monotony 
 keeps giving precious gifts,
 the firmament criss-crossed 
 in jet trails.
 It makes me smile.
 An unmade azure sky bed,
 crumpled clouds spread out.
 I tuck my typed note 
 under a Marestail of cirrus.
 A bucketful of sun-drip love. 

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