Poems from the Fevers of the Mind Anthologies by Ceinwed E Cariad Haydon

From Depression Into Light

On the day, her black dog died,
she emerged from limbo
and finally her partner
dispersed his old lies.

Caught by her resurrection,
the light within her knowing eyes,
he came clean. Too long,
he'd played redeemer
according to his own needs.

Humbled by her courage,
he lay marrow-rich bones
before her blistered feet.

Thought-Spawn

liquid bubble wrap
too soft for popping

aqueous viscous soup
squishes around each nucleus
to nourish fresh divers ideas

inside my cranium floats
homegrown brain-spawn
eggs in waiting pure potential
more dreams and aspirations
than will ever swell to live a life
destinies foreshortened and forlorn

yet in the seething swirling swamp
swim thoughts strong-minded fit
destined to develop and survive

they mature sprout heads and legs
ready to fledge and spread gauche gifts
zany bright through not completely wise

Crepuscular

Your sun sinks,
shrouded beyond
skyline's horizontals.

Liquid iron cools hardens
escaped rivulets
today's furnace greys out.

Tonight, dusk's knives file my brain,
grim ghosts come out to play.
Will they walk or race like you
away? Leaving poisoned plasma
deep in inflamed membranes -
marked thin tissue
scarred, last obsolete remains
of my sunburnt mind?

Beech Tree

Still, silvered limbs caught open,
press up, tease sky-floss clouds.
Thirsty for moisture,
they wait
passions ringed,
held buried deep
beneath thick-barked skin.

Coppiced trunk-legs part
unashamed, reveal a perfect V -

a brave inverted apex,
viridian vulva, vaunted
yet veiled - 
laced close
covered in green lichen

I touch
dark, damp moss. Strands
encircle my outstretched fingers

remind me of my age and arid loss

Breaking Free

Ceramic up-lights, wall mounted,
cup thin, lucent air in Mother's empty room.
Vacant, threadbare chairs,
piled high with unread books, nestle up
agin long tapestry curtains. Folds
backlit by swallowed sunshine.
I, her hated daughter,
try to push her darkness back
with overwhelmed and guilty heart.
French windows - bolted, brass locks
cold to finger, give onto weed-thronged gardens.
I snatch both handles, flout creaks
to fling them open-wide. Frantic,
I find mops, cloth and bucket
run water from seized taps,
sluice dust and slime away,
clean deep through seams of tension
into crisp, clear orphaned days.

Wolfpack Contributor: Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

4 Poems from Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon