I cannot say I've ever written poems with a serious intention of publication, more an appreciation for word play. Even so, I've managed to have a number snapped up and published. This was one of them:


Paper fluttering in a cold breeze
torn from a book.
The knife cutting into flesh and blood seeps
black as a raven
in a tree where no bird can ever sing.

A burning line of fire
blackens branches.
A woman's wailing is the only sound
her face unseen hidden in her stained hands
though the skin is obscene white.

In searing heat from the pit
of his stomach the red flame rose
burning up towards the throat
consuming the heart.

Love and anger at war
has scorched the earth.
The wind dies and nothing stirs.

(c) S.M.Bidwell 2003 (published by Whispers of Wickedness)