Shelia Knowles


Well-rounded cliché

Sitting on the train
to Frankfurt airport
I’m sweltering

in a half-pint compartment
with a friendly suit
who’s writing notes
with a fountain pen
ignoring the laptop
at his side

a withering hippy
is sending e mails
on his cell phone
as the Nigerian dude
twirls the gold rings
around his weather-beaten fingers
and a Turkish teenager
travels light
in last decades colors

And then there’s me
beaded drawstring bag
flopped at my feet
briefcase on my lap
holding on to the book
I’m supposed to be editing
face set
in a blank expression

And I suddenly realize
there isn’t a well- rounded cliché
among us!

*previously published in LitVison Poetry Issue 14


Dream of Me in Velvet

Dream of me in velvet
in shades of
Indian red
swallow mein gulps
of heady Beaujolais
blow smoke rings
round my waist
as you drag me down
to lazy beds of decadence
and drip your words
like syrup
on my tongue

*previously published in The Cerebral Catalyst - Jan. 2, 2006


Between The Cracks

There was a moment
when the light
from the sun
found an eyehole
in the curtain of my conscience
pierced a hole
through my potential
then watched
as the promise
of perfection leaked
onto the floorboards
and sank between the cracks

*previously published in Zygote in my Coffee - Issue 59/Feb. 2006


Withered

I’ve nothing left to say
since my words failed me
or was it you
who plucked them
from this withered vine
I’ve dragged this tongue past teeth
to find some sounds
to fill the silence
that you left
but all I have
is the rancid air
I suck and seethe
between these rigid lips
While all the words you need
are on your face
they’re cast within the venom
of your stare
and I’m never finished reading
though I’m tired
of hunting metaphors
in flesh