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.

Adultery – Poetry


By J. A. Weymouth


Honour slips past vague eyes and is placed away from the window.

Red skirts wave mockingly through rigid movements as they catch each stair.

Her lips are not glass but flicker still beyond the chamber door.

A catch of cold breath rises in the air and falls onto the dust covered mirror.

Wooden sounds against the house reverberate thoroughly creating a cacophony of lust.

Hallowed emptiness lives still beyond layered silk.

And all this wanting is left with a pained stroke

gone once out of a knowing trust.