Poem: Bombs

Run.

Like the bustling of
a city, bursting
at the seams
with life,

two taps feed
the space
with clear, untainted
innocence. Feel the heat
radiate
like joy from the surface
as the space fills, and grows,
and becomes.

Take a look
at the world below
the brim.
Leave it be,
let it flow.

Then.

Drop it in.
Watch it expel
and fizz, staining
the space
with its intrusion.

Watch as it extracts
the untainted
innocence
and destroys it

with a layer of glitter
and the overwhelming stench
of lavender.

Watch
as it does,
as it changes,
as it is.

Wait.

Now stop
the stream,
kill the bustling.

See the blood
pink water,
the explosive’s
fizzing remains.

The reflective, silver
plughole
now coated

in cocoa butter.

See, now,
the extent
of what you’ve done.

© Aimee S. Green, 04/05/2018

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Prose Poem: Cat in Rain

Wet soaking. Dance across road water in between toes. Cold. I want. Jump up onto wet. Something dry please. Where is dry is anything dry anymore or.

Heavy fur. Soaking.

Why won’t let me in why? Howl and meow and scratch door normally works not tonight. Rub down lots of rubs towel is what I want. Howl some more come on come on. Hop up onto window cry cry cry. Can’t see anyone inside. Dark inside.

Four legs four feet eighteen toes all wet soaking. Shake paws dry wet again. Sky falling in. Left outside during end of world. Off down street puddles rivers oceans. I want. I want. Back onto road. Car coming out splashing up drenching more.

Heavier fur. Soaking.

Hey you yes you going in house can you let me in? Can you give me rub down with towel? Can you dry between toes and stop sky falling in can you? No you disappeared. Into house. Lights on dryness in. How does it feel shedding wet coat stupid? No care for me why I draw short one.

Somewhere else. This street looks same as last as last as last. Still wet soaking. Where is home now? Not been this way never had reason. Why today why now. Pretend not to care. Keep up appearances.

Drops on whiskers into eyes ouch squint look up. More human hey you wait. Left out in rain too. Also wet soaking. Much we have in common! Now let me in yes. Into warm house yes. Why not open. I want please I want. Don’t talk to me I don’t know human. Why humans assume I speak human stupid. Rub against you own way of communicating. Let me in let me in let me. Wait. Door still closed why still closed don’t they love you too? We’ll die out here you me. Die in rain at end of world. Wet soaking you and me yes. Cry cry cry join in with me cry cry cry.

Door open hey wait. Light in out. Go run into house yes. Meow cry hello I’m here. You’ve been waiting for me I see yes. Don’t care about human please I want. That yes that. Yes I’m wet soaking nice to meet you. Good towel yes.

© Aimee S. Green, December 2017

Poem: Mornings in Bed with the Cat

for Rascal (who is 15 today)

We both know
I should be up by now.
Instead you’re clamped
between my ankles, violently
washing dirt
from between your toes.
My head is still buried
deep within my pillow,
and all my left ear can hear
is the repetitive clicking
of tooth against claw.

I try to kick you away
but then you move
slowly, sleepily, lovingly,
to my head.

Now you’re rubbing your gums
endlessly against my pinky.
Marking me with your scent,
grooming me with
your sandpaper tongue.

I give you a tired stroke.
You suck my finger, lick
my greasy morning face.
And then you lie your
feline grandeur
on my outstretched arm
and close your brilliant eyes.

I decide
that if you’re happy
staying in bed
this morning, this afternoon,
this evening,
then goodness knows
I am too.

© Aimee S. Green, 11/03/2018

Poem: Sugar

for DC

I remember once, when you
passed us and we summoned you, and
you sat down with us,

the conversation was over
as soon as it was spoken.

And then you gave us each
a single fruit pastille from a tube in your
jacket pocket,

a random, selfless,
meaningless gesture,

gone as soon as it was eaten.

But after you scurried away I
wished I’d let the sweet linger, forbidden
myself to chew,

because once it’s gone, it’s gone,
and no attempts at making myself sick
will ever bring it back.

© Aimee S. Green, 2018

Poem: You Wanted My Opinion, So Here It Is

Who said about life being perfect?
You did, I’m sure,
when you gave all that to him.

Back when the stars aligned
to create the image of Virgo;
back when ships sailed through the blue of the sky
and mountain ranges were carved out of the clouds.
Barbe à papa. The one constant you promised him
just happened to be what was high
above your heads.

But not even the moisture in the sky lasts forever.
Eventually it will fall and form puddles on the ground,
giving life a layer of the cold and wet
desired only on scalding days.

Barbe à papa; clouds on a stick. Spun sugar
at the carnival, eaten by those with a
sweet tooth. Love isn’t to everyone’s tastes,
but who said about life being perfect?
Put up your umbrella and go back to him.
The sky’s the limit.

© Aimee S. Green, 2012
Originally published in Flux Anthology (Aberystwyth University Press, 2012)

Poem: The First Pen Stroke

I commit to the page
by signing the date
in the top left. Now

I’m bound to write
this, whatever this is
or may become.

The marked page
has more power than
its blank predecessor,

the dated page an
unspoken promise to
capture everything soon,

before today
is gone forever.

© Aimee S. Green, 14/04/2018

Hello!

Welcome to my site! 🙂 As I progress from the completion of my MA in September towards the rest of my writing life, I’m going to use this blog and my accompanying Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/aimeegreenwriter/) to share my work and journey. It’s humble beginnings at the moment, I’m afraid – but keep an eye out soon for some prose and poetry along with other insights into my world. Thank you so much for visiting my site and I hope you enjoy what you find. 🙂