An Owlet Calls

hospital sounds occurred as

limp wires stretched to where she lay


body traumatised by the crash

she would scar , she would heal

away without him

her abuser,possessor , nightmare husband

a moth glimmered in her eye

how did it get in

then seemed to grow

expanding into something larger

she managed a smile

as it settled upon her

she sighed

it’s body pressing on top

a noctuidae

face bearded wise

antenna folded, she wanted to touch

trying to speak intubated

a gargling slur of nothing

I will protect you

it seemed to say

a fair exchange would be

probiscus probing pressing

her vein rich neck

flowing with oxygenated life

it pierced her flesh gently

a soft penetration

unlike others experienced

she would be safe

the owlet moth said so


she slept

Owlet moth copyright Daniel Kaliko


camomile artist

this voice of the river
pressed wavelets to the hull,
kisses gentle
as the heat of day waned,
there is an island
he took himself to
and revealed not to many,
his sister stretched her hand
to the surface,
his obsession that yellow obsession
of scrawled canvas
becoming painfully light
each coming and passing day,
his work confessional
to a degree that
his lips where bitten into scabs
and fingernails worn,
absinthe stained his teeth
and confounded the workings
of an already fractured mind,
he wanted to show
one person the accommodation
crooked walls hung with works
salons would faint at,
not his usual pastorals and portraits,
this was a diminished reality
with a lot of truth
his sarcasm would not yield
afraid of her reaction
progressed slowly
yesterday still had a grip,
he could not release
approaching jetty
tremors worked in his arms,
breathing quickened,
when the moon set
he would be revealed
and her pain would be no loss,
when the rains came
he would return alone
clouds would cover the moon
and deny reflection and illumination
there was a lot more to be done

poetry, art, media

John Singer Sargent – Autumn on The River 1889

feathers of the elephant

tattooed with gandhi
no skin will lie,
bare butt piss
constant lemon stream,
she watched his fuzzy back
dark mat of curls
lined by her nails,
depressed bed
mattress coils gone
before their advertised expiry,
a week of this
longing and urgent,
walking back
she waited
a sharp twinge in her stomach,
the next day 
could not come quick enough


poet, poem, poetry

horizons last echo

april sky so soon

drifting on a serpents tail,

leave things unsaid

as land sloop nods it’s sails

passing by

current winds darkly,

past rises and falls

heart regains soft perfume

and patient curve of dreams,

the dose of milky words is measured

and watch strong veins yield,

fertile nymph swift winged

with gentle reprimand and sweet caress

each phrase an anchor

she is the earth i sought

connect and chains alike rendered

into length across the gulf

range to stars and hand shaped sun,

beam downward facing light

it’s shift as hot  as a hammer strike,

layers heat stripped back

pool of her shine

into a naked dance

witnessed by constellation

who appraised and agreed,

becoming fugitives

beyond a shouting earth

we fled on the arch

of freedoms ray


electric seasonal analysis

in open eyed sleep

those bridges have no span

as night follows the curve

spreading darkness

and moons quarter glow,

fox on bed of rotting

fall leaves unblinking

wanting for a lonely prey,

whales ceaseless extend

range across oceans

that have many liquid paths,

and the infant

at the bars of it’s cot

red eye tired

holding on waiting

with some trepidation

as scissors of day cut slits

letting light seep through,

new light new day

streams winter refreshed

grass becomes unbowed

no longer submissive,

it smells different

under blanket of darkness

a transformation

of renewal

of procreation

the urge to replace winter fallen,

infant releases bars

sitting back

it’s face acknowledges

what this morning

has brought


Her Bare Feet

red toenails move

wrapped around

leonard cohen’s voice,

toes extended

as arch and sole

pressed together

rubbing softly

to the rhythm ,

as timbre of voice

fed through veins

vinyl’s soft scratch,

lying absorbed

flesh prickled,

this her moment

lost to sound

given to art

Charlotte Gainsbourg  AnOther

magpie tales statue stamp 185


depth of darkness

measured by fear

rolled tight as a scroll

in my gut,

no reflective light

guiding footfalls

taken across carpeted halls,

my mind once a languid

harbor ,

now storm tossed

each night a lesion

to my conscious

breath came in stuttering

pauses from which

condensation lifted,

never reassured,

for every night i walk

the dream of the night before


last sentence a prompt at Writers Digest