– for my father –

I remember the
medicine bottle.
A spiral grows from the
plastic cap, like DNA.

You used them for
hooks, sinkers and

I dug through your red
bag of tackle, rolled
like a scroll.

Velcro cracks as
I peel it. Grains of
beach sand dance on
the plastic skin.

My fingers skip like an
excited jeweller. I hold
a grey weight in my hand.

I looks like a battered pyramid,
scars and scrapes
drawn into geography.

Under the butt there is a
metal loop to tie your line.

“This weight is for the sea.”
My father’s voice turns the
tide of my thoughts.

He tells me the pointed end
digs into the sand.
It holds the bait
that flies a bloody flag.

I finger 2 long
lead weights. dead weight.

Ten years on I can still
feel those dense shapes
in the oyster of my palm.

I can feel the smile spill
through the shrub of your beard.
I can smell the scent of a wooden path.

Brown arms become bronze,
Sea and sweat stick to our stories.
Have I become a fisherman?

Well, almost.





between the two of us

you are like the wind on a
mountain, your voice is supple.
it weaves through my old furniture
in the house.

my heavy pauses frustrate you.
when I plod from point-to-point
you are already riding rapids
in the rain.

I don’t think it will work out
between the two of us. I sit on
my sofa like a comfortable crab
your hands dance towards the
ceiling, parting curtains
hanging paintings

your fingers stroke the pulse of
sunlight, and my
eyes are buried in a book.






there’s a long road ahead
headlights vibrate news back
to me through the windows
and contours of night

there’s a raindrop kissing the glass
it feels heavy underneath
fragile eyes and folded hands

something’s gotta give
make room for the aftermath





two warm bodies pulse
into the black night
two brains
shimmer in between veins
of streetlamps

tonight he straddles
the fuel tank
underneath its engine
gurgles and mutters
like an actor
lost in monologue

they pour onto the freeway
four eyes pump and ignite
with ecstasy
the road stretches
like a careful corpuscle
headlights and cabins of steel
shuttle past them

her arms are woven into him
he feels stronger when he rides – she says
they share a heart
they share the air
crawling through the arteries of their egos
and slowly it will coagulate
into the depths of their minds

when it’s over the purr of a heart
continues through chapters
of slumber
two chests rise and fall to
the rhythm of dreams

By Kalen Bloodstone

By Kalen Bloodstone (Click on the image to go to Kalen’s DeviantArt profile!)


poetry, Reviews

winter succubus. | WritersCafe.org

she ekes at my psyche 

trailing icy fingerprints
through the hallways of my heart,
while whispering the truths that hurt –
the ones i know better
than to acknowledge…
she knows the chinks in my armour,
after all, she cut them all out
in the first place
in winter months
her thoughts hold sway
and i recede
huddled within the safety
of my trusty bolthole
she prowls the perimeter
keeping watch
and while her insidious murmurs
can slide through the floorboards
or between the planks i nailed
over the only way in
(or out)
she herself is unable
to ghost her icicle touch
along my pale flesh
now if i can only hold out til spring…

© 2010 jenniewren (J.W. Bouwman)

poetry, Reviews

We Silly Proletariat | WritersCafe.org

The following is a poem from a good friend of mine. Her work is always authentic, and a rich read. 😉

We Silly Proletariat | WritersCafe.org.


The caterpillars chew

the garden ivy to a delicate lace,

browned and unrecognizable under August’s sun.


And the tree spiders spit

their webs into summer’s humid sigh:

the silky tendrils coat the sidewalks

coat the wooden door frames, already swollen

from exposure like grapes 

bursting from the vine.


We silly proletariat only pay notice

to the electrical storms 

that steep along the western horizon.



We grow bored with garden parties

and decide to leave together,

driving out of the city, through back roads.

Knees to chest, I sit in your passengers seat

replaying “Oh Comely”,

 screaming my favorite lines out the window…


“Know all your enemies.  We know who our enemies are.”


We park at the top of the bluff,

which over looks the nuclear power plant.

Heat lightning stretches across the sky

purple and quick, flashes of a summer

we only knew from inside weak hours

with backs to the sky, hands to the wheels

which turn and churn.


We know nothing of happy vaporization.



The thunder is loud

rattles your windows, shakes the floorboards.

My stockings are wet from sloshing

through puddles I thought were not deep.


You offer tea.

You bring sugar and a dry shirt.

As warm as I am, this night will end.  

Day will come.


When you realize I am crying,

you place one hand on my knee,

and the other on my soft belly.


I inch away, stating,

“It’s not that kind of crying.”

© 2010 Ms. Gruye

poetry, Thoughts


If I’m not a modern man,
then I’m just a
post traumatic heretical fleabag,
a rebel with a cause, just one that’ll
involve a plate load of legal tendons
and a chance to cut
the argument to the bone.
Nature should feed itself with the slow
decomposition of human consciousness. Even
Queen said ‘who wants to live forever’ and
right now they’re still a bunch of fags, all
grey on top and wrinkled in the middle, their
seams slowly splitting.

I believe in the unbelief that binds us to our
inner systems. Religion has it’s own
dark matter, it’s a beast that does not come
to slay the world but rather rot the fertile
minds from the inside pages of their own book.
It’s like that time when the string of a yo-yo
snapped in the middle, it could only spin
and weave through the world at half the speed
until it staggered to an abrupt halt in
a foreign hand.

I’m off drugs for the most part. I mean the ones
that really dirty the exhaust pipe of time. We’re
not clever to use water in cars, so why should I
stop smoking? The last time I checked we were still
making fast food inflate those fat fuckers, and cheap
enough to fill any hungry beggar with a dizzy dose
of carbs and maybe a tearful of vitamins.

I’m pre-packed with pathos. The pub does that when
you’ve been there long enough and watched that fairy
in the glass, not the one of allure, but the one telling
you there is a wife at home with a warm body buried in
bed, and a toddler climbing through the clay in his head.
Maybe it’s time you had one more gulp to saturate the
sobbing behind your eyes, only the real people can see.

Every night I get home that rocking chair on the porch
greets me. I can imagine my old man sitting there watching
my poor choices and smoky clothes. Parents can look at you
in a deeper way where time slows down to a syrupy slur. I
only see him at night when that house opens out it’s
gentle vernacular of foibles and whispers. I like to
think it’s helping me grow into that armchair of life,
and leave behind a smile for the photographs.