David Estringel is a writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalopress, North Meridian Review, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Horror Sleaze Trash, and The Blue Nib. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published April 2019, followed by three poetry chapbooks, Punctures (2019), PeripherieS (2020), and Eating Pears on the Rooftop (coming 2022). His new book of micro poetry little punctures, a collaboration with UK illustrator and artist, Luca Bowles, will be released in 2022 by Really Serious Literature. Follow David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com
(originally published at Lothlorien Poetry Journal)
Quiet starfalls, sprinkled from God’s fingertips, slice and burn through Summer’s night to dance and play atop the barley, resting, gently, noble crowns upon smooth brows of boys and girls playing in the fields. How these kings and queens of Earth (of nothing), swathed in paupers’ cloth with bodies, electric, of hot blood and light, laugh and prance in fountain-drunken promenade through this mortal coil, blind to cut and scrape. O, flowers among the chaff, with cheeks, sticky-sweet with red plum jam, and arms, outstretched, I pray those luminous wreathes and heady scepters never fall as you leap, and twirl, and stumble into the sweet oblivion of your starry fields, for just beyond the horizon fire flies.
(originally published at Alebrijes Review)
Fire in my lungs and poisoned veins, fading in (to white) out (to black), I see the eye of God— unflinching cold against the welcoming void of closed lids... …that dream? Is He keeping vigil? Calling in the loan? Always attending never ending, His watch, nary a waver, there between the veil ‘til shadows of angels, wingless white against the blaze of artificial suns, rouse me back to this world of light and illusion—the Hell of my own making, Was He keeping vigil? Calling in the loan? I suppose I’ll never know
(originally published at The Milk House)
Sittin’ on the back porch— drunk on gasoline and baseball cards— I’m rockin’ to the creaks of bones and backyard poplars that sway in the summer breeze. Clouds pull like flour sack dishcloths ‘cross God’s baby blue to hold back the rain, and thoughts steal away to the cold of icebox-orange smiles against teeth and another bottle in the cupboard.