This is a Red Night (Poetry)


This is a Red Night

By J. A. Weymouth


This is a red night and

out of no where

two pairs of eyes meet.


Coffee stained glasses

and raised eyebrows


Applauded men

with white/left winged suits.


Freeways, miles,

and girls with boy-cut bobs.


This is a roaring night of dancing.

Key-board notes.

The Hand – Poetry

ImageThe Hand

By J. A. Weymouth


Faded/split into two.

Other side is conscious and knowing while one waits silently at the door.


Curious as ever,

Its eyes move rigid, pressed against untamed littlies.

Watchful, hateful, noiseless.


Finger tips encircle a crown as golden entrails seep outwards.


A word is rested,

sentimental even –

with festering purpose.


Circles ins and outs:

reflections of an ill-mannered past like pictures reminiscing velvet lies.


And I shudder.


Still shivering like a child who holds on.

Never alike to the become and the then before.


Always a child,

and never more.

Enter, our fate – Poetry

Enter, our fate

By J. A. Weymouth


So to hear that fate

who crumbles sleep

enters the place of will

to no rest


But oh, that red

that rattles my breast

Caress? No colours

ought. Seems to the eye


Through the turtle shell

A sage ponders

Could I envy?

Such clear thoughts?


Led through fields

of obtuse trees

for the Shepherd

There they sit, passive.

He weeps.