K. L. Noone: A Traveling Poem

An absolutely gorgeous poem by K. L. Noone which really gets across the heart-aching void of missing someone special whilst travelling abroad. Don’t forget you can find all of K. L.’s other books and writing here.


Pic credit: Yousef Aluhigi on Unsplash.com

I miss you.

There’s a sunrise outside

the airplane window and already I miss you.

I miss the weight of your body against mine. I miss

Reaching out a hand

and knowing it’ll find yours.

I have distractions. I speak

of history and stories and theories and scholarship,

academic and precise. I speak

to other people.

They are very nearly as real as you are.

You are my anchor. I will see you soon.

My skin counts down the days, the hours, the minutes.

The sky above the city might’ve been a Monet painting

as we crossed the bridge today, exploring this city:

no visible source of light, but light all-encompassing,

swirling through the clouds.

I wanted to say this to you, and I thought

about the day I knew I was in love with you,

the day on which I knew that I wanted to say everything to you,

bad puns, strange asides, random whims that came to mind,

because I could: because you’d nod, or laugh,

or shake your head while smiling, and take my hand.

That knowing

is the best thing I’ve ever done.

I take photographs of places you would like,

intricate colors, angled shapes,

signs that’d make you smile.

I try for some time to capture the lens flare

on the edges of a building

the way you would,

with the eye of your camera. I do not succeed.

But I will show you my efforts.

Tonight I will speak to you, electronic and windy,

across distance and a continent;

your voice will be warm in my ear before sleep.

Rebecca Cohen: The Death of Adonis

Here’s a new, classically-inspired poem by Rebecca Cohen that’s chock full of meaning, sometimes lurking between the lines! If you like this, why not check out Rebecca’s books, which include the lovely Crofton Hall series, both historical and contemporary.


Pic credit: Brent Connolly on Pixabay.com

Once a golden god, an idolatrist’s dream.

Worshipped. Adored in boundless awe.

All eyes upon him, devoured by lustful gazes,

but the hunger fades, replaced with disbelief.

His blond hair of youth turned to grey.

A cheeky wink now wrinkled.  

Body marching south as if to Rhodes

not travelled, a lifetime’s journey interrupted.

What is beauty but a distorted mirror?

Young or old: a reflection of the unreal.

Never more than a passing image,

the wonders of last week’s news cast aside.

The crone smiles at him, a knowing smirk.

Offers eye of newt to smooth crow’s feet.

Toxin-laden lotion to unfurl a worried brow

or tincture of boar’s tusk to peel away the years.

When the potions fail to work, cut out the old.

Flying knives, sharp as ravens’ beaks.

Changes no longer just skin-deep emerge

reveals Narcissus, who revels at centre stage.

Jeff Baker: Halloween 2020

Here’s another short poem set during Halloween, but one with a difference. It took me a while to get it – until I really sat up and took notice of the date in the title (above). After that, I realised just how true, and just how poignant it was. Thanks, Jeff!


Pic credit: Filip Mroz on Unsplash.com

There is a full Moon, orange and bright

            Rising over the rooftops, part of the ancient clock

            Timed once in a generation or so to light the way

            For neighborhood children, garbed in finest shrouds

            Clothing of superheroes or cowboys, bags in hand

            The sacred rituals of Halloween

            But this October Thirty-First is different from all others

            Even those during the Wars, for fear is not make-believe

            And masks have a different meaning this dark, mad year

            Doors are shut, children inside, candy unused

            Spirits of the past swirl the empty, moonlit streets

            The night belongs to witches.

Kaje Harper: Halloween

And now, as the saying goes, for something completely different. Well, not completely, obviously – we’re still doing m/m romance, we’re still doing short fiction and poetry. But since we’e on the run up to Halloween at the end of the month, I thought it would be fun to post a whole load of spooky little stories, poems and bits and bobs to get us all in the mood. Look out for a range of naughty and/or spooky little numbers in the coming days, but first up is this absolute gem of a poem from Kaje Harper, which makes a serious point underneath the rhyming fun.



There can be isolation in a crowd.
And silence, though the music shakes your bones.
Slurs can be heard, though never said aloud,
And sneers can hit as hard as mobs fling stones.

I thought, this once, my choices were set free.
That anything I dared to wear would fly.
But from the sharp disdain they aim at me,
I see that I was wrong, the more fool I.

A masquerade means something to this group
That isn’t freedom just to be yourself.
They’re stilted, formal, kept within the loop
Of pretty, boring, het, and pure top-shelf.

My choice of lace and fishnet raises brows.
The corset gathers stares of pure disdain.
That pretty nun looks like she’s making vows
To cut me, if I speak to her again.

I’m far too proud to turn around and go,
Too stubborn to admit this is a fail.
I stalk up the grand staircase, give a show,
And put one high-heeled pump up on the rail.

Yeah, I’m in drag, so bite me if I care
For all your proper stuffy upper-class.
There’s not a single person here would dare
To wear the skirt that’s showing off my ass.

I toss my head, and blur my eyes to miss
The way they turn away and sip champagne,
And whisper to each other, mutter, hiss,
“We never should invite him here again.”

A warm hand on my shoulder makes me jump.
I turn, and see a tall guy standing there.
He says, “Hey, gorgeous, wanna blow this dump
“And go somewhere where we can breathe the air?

“This lot may have the money and blue blood
“But you can’t tell me they have any fun.
“I’d like to share some nachos and a Bud,
“And then maybe a dance. You up for one?”

I drop the pose, and take my first real breath
And tell this stunning guy, “Fuckin’ hell, yes.
“All I’ll get here is disapproved to death.
“But are you up for a man in a dress?”

He shares a grin and says, “I think I’m up,
“For anything you might want me to be.
“Let’s grab some beer served in a plastic cup
“And you can shake that skirt-clad ass at me.”

The vampire in the custom-tailored tux
Looks down his nose at us as we go by.
My man says, “Hey, you know that when he fucks,
“He’s just as dull in bed. I swear, no lie.”

I laugh, and feel his hand warm on my back
And all the rest of them just fade away
I start designing the delicious snack
I’ll feed this guy, ’round noon, on All Saints’ Day.

Chris Quinton: Equus Sapiens

For a complete change, here’s a clever little poem from Chris Quinton. It may be short, but it packs quite a punch! Chris also drew the amazing artwork that accompanies the poem. I hope you like both. If you do, you might want to check out Chris’s books, in a range of genres including fantasy and mystery, which you can find more details about on her Facebook author page.


“Thou hast the mind of a malicious child,”

a sorcerer once said to me.

I did not kill him out of malice,

but of curiosity.

To learn how he tasted.