Blue Eyes Green

Black. White. Eyes open and the light is bright.

Your eyes are closed, but they are all I can see.

Open them, let me gaze upon your dilated sight,

regard upon my scope, you may examine me,

let me witness you behold me in your ogling.

Identify and descry any distinction in our focusing.

Detect the lust in my eye. Open your eyes and let ‘em

advertise the chastity from your optic in my vision.

Uncover the gluttony of my gaze. Look upon them,

and permit me sight of your temperance for revision.

Stare into the wrath of my peeper. Use your ocular

enlightenment to praise forgiveness Mary mother

of Jesus. Of Muhammad. Of God. Of Allah. Eight.

Four pairs. Brown pupils, blue eyes, green eyeball.

Some variation between colour, but all hate.

Oh, wait. No – not hate: love. Love. Above all,

love each other deeply, because love covers over

a multitude of sins. It is not the eyes that are blind,

but the hearts.

Forward

I could forgive

you if you

said sorry, but I

will not forget.

I will not

be mad,

I will not

be sad.

I won’t

fight the lad

or pretend

to be glad;

I will look

forward

and I will

walk.

The Wanderlust Lyric

Look over at the horizon, see the

shadow haunting me. See it stalk behind

three miles; crossing forests, swamps and sea.

I can not turn back. My path is defined.

Will it follow me like this forever?

And where shall we find? Are we journey-bound

like blood to a hound, treading wherever

boots tread – or will it tread me underground?

More running from my demon won’t solve this,

but for now, running will do. But one stride

from the edge is a stride for the abyss.

Oh, if I could stride skylines by your side

without afearing the death in your eyes

to wander into the splendid sunrise.

Buried (poem)

Buried


I lie alone in darkness,
shrouded with black sand and fishing rope.
I watched you walk away and forget about me.
You let go of me, but I’m still
held down. I will fight until my last sharp breath.
I will struggle as the ropes soak
and the sand bows down into my breast.
God, hold back the tide.
I can not get up, but I will not stay down.
Heaven hear me, I won’t wash into the nothing.

In an ocean of darkness,
one moonlit woman with cold dilated eyes
lies with me as if a word would change the tide.
Take my hand, she told me.
Those were your words on our last summer’s day.
We bathed in light and laughed
until our cheeks burned and eyes cried.
Oh, I am not proud.
All is lost now, the waves are taking over.
I always said you took my breath away.

I’m trapped by darkness,
leave me to time and tide, I don’t care any more.
I’d feel my legs begin to buckle, if they weren’t numb.
Take my hand, she tells me,
I can see you starting to break, open your eyes,
light up the sky and I’ll keep you alive.
I force my hand out, up into hers.
I feel her slipping away, come back to me!
I cannot hold on.
Don’t leave me in the dark, show me the way.

'Mind and Matter', by Aron Woolnough

Mind and Matter

Grey hairs betray me, hitting the warm floor.

Shall I begin to shave away the rest,

would it not be until my roots are sore

and I am balding before we know best.

Tourniquet tied around my life too tight,

perhaps my veins will pop under the stress,

bleed this poison over my skin tonight

into the cracks and heal, but I digress,

my arm attacked by a single needle,

victory tubes connecting to blister

packs full of deadly venom by treadle.

A pound self-shaving station at Lister

asks if I will handle the blade myself,

and ceasefire against my terminal health.

'No Walking Stick', by Aron Woolnough

No Walking Stick

Green bag by black and white umbrella,

held by an old looking fella in his left hand,

moving with purpose, marching proudly

back and forth, patrolling the safe platforms.

Ladies laughing up in arms observing overtly

the old man in sights on stage for the freak show.

Middle finger flicks past a barrel to trigger

a chain reaction of bright flash to a startled mass.

-

Yellow Hi Vis eating pie with thumb and finger

between lunch and dinner he’s not getting any thinner,

but he is waiting, with a return ticket to the capital;

for labour under moonlight at the construction site.

From the darkness in a high vis harness,

a mighty meaty, awfully sweaty, hot and heavy,

figure uncertainly steps forward and into a

shining bright, focused tight flash light.

-

The train is on time spitting gas one minute away,

the freak is falling to the tracks. Piss leaking

all over the rock and roll soldier, of an era immersed

with engine grime, dry blood and cooking grease.

Sharp pebble in his eye, but the guy was half blind before

the cackles cease and the ladies look down at the freak

who tries to stand with his umbrella, but breaks it.

He holds up an empty hand, but no one takes it.

-

Rich white trash see a train coming about to crash.

The massive yellow body boldly steps forward

with wet sticky fingers that slide into the palm

of the fragile freak and burns the muscles in his arm.

Two Ds, three Es, an F and a pass

he’ll never be more than working class,

with second hand jeans showing his arse,

but distinction in the master class of decency.

-

Six more months of marching, one medal down,

Saluting his five foot, seventeen stone saviour.

Looks him up and down through a bloodshot eye,

inspired by why his brothers chose to die.

Standing Stones - Poem review by Stefan

Standing Stones by Aron Woolnough - poem review

"The poem 'Standing Stones' signifies a playful short story written with an inspiration for a lady captured in a magnificent nature and surroundings. It is written in a simple yet catchy style filled with metaphors. Descriptive enough to cover the nature of the thoughts and actions as well as the location in which they happen , it is a short romance story aimed on how love can play with our minds sometime towards a person in a perfect scenery.

The mood of expression as well as the style in which this romantic poem is written is close to the traditional British poetry scene that introduced us to the traditional emphasis of imagination and experience - yet it is modernized with rich vocabulary presenting the scenery impeccably well, so the reader feels the emotions and the idea behind in a positive and easy mood.

The desire for the lady which is the main object of this romantic poem is the emotion that keeps the reader lustful - describing her in a lively mood while contemplating with the writer's feelings towards the image of the lady.

The writer's preoccupation with the object of the story - the beautiful and mystical lady focuses on an indefatigable search for the increasing desire, whilst with a focus on the literary form perfectly resembles the female beauty in 3 short verses.

Vintage enough to represent the emotions with the scenery whilst personal and engaging in describing the emotions and thoughts in the writer's head, the motions are well structured within the verses creating a continuous structure of the story - describing a thought-provoked time lapse from the beginning to the end.

With optimism in the very end and lustful feelings, the story wraps up with hope for the future of the two people engaged in a platonic yet real love. This short poem resembles how romance doesn't need much to be expressed within its three verses - filled with rich emotions and thoughts inspired by a woman's beauty".

Thank you Stefan for this review. If any other readers would like to submit their reviews (good or bad), comments, their work or any literary reflections, please e-mail them to me at aron.woolnough@gmail.com or leave a comment below. 

Aron