June 5, 2015

Three Poems By Lewis R. Humphries: Kindling

Lewis is a professional writer and blogger based in Birmingham, UK. He also has a passion for creative writing, and has featured in magazines throughout the UK, U.S. and Oceania.


 
KINDLING


Ribbons of sallow light,
they stream from single bulb heads,
and gild the hour
of 3 am.
His fragmentary masterpiece,
due homage to her remembrance,
now tendered by
the sleight of hand.

Her being, a blaze of light
between immensities of dark,
is near rendered
in emotive verse.
As each word defines his labour,
a melding of
skill with the
corollary of loss.

Such unrepressed candour,
now the corporeal remnant
of her stolen,
guiltless essence.
Its manifestation
founded solely out of angst,
and a kindled fervour
in a quiescent craft.


The Whisper of Fingertips


As one beneath the spill of moonlight,
their essence braced against the cold,
as slithered, silver seeping
ignites the twilight’s mould;
and hues the pale
of winters drift,
a darker
shade of
old.
No
words are
spoken in
the moment, no
trace of sound is made;
Instead, his muse slow creeps,
by whisper of fingertips,
each hushed stroke a faithless promise,
a temperate touch to coax her sin.


The End of Something


Beneath the window’s bay, in a perfectly
angular square of shade, there slopes the
sunken hollow beside a mound of grassy loam.
And in the space lies her remnants, arched yet
lifeless as the void dictates, an existence
rendered idle by the motion of the blade.


She is consorted in indolence, (just
as in the feats of covetousness)
by her partner lying prone in juxtapose.
They were red hot lovers these two,
joined in a licentious collective, until their
ardor paid heed to the soft brogue of steel.


Its whisper so persuasive, as the
contentions of an adulterous tongue,
beguiling lives along a barbed incline
to meet their end. Fleet, sinuous thrusts,
and their vigorous monotony, soon
curbed the wield of fanciful promise.


Whilst song, their song, diminishes to resonance
through a density of fabric, gallant fleets
of soil bound in time to throttled beats.
From a plunging brink towards the fractured
earth, each altruistic wisp gives itself to the
necessary exploits of reprisal.

~Lewis R. Humphries

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