‘Where is My Son of a Preacher Man?’, ‘Fog’, & ‘High as a Kite’
Photographer - Beth Cole
Where is My Son of a Preacher Man?
Whose words would heal the cynic
Whose gifts I’ve heard in lyrics
Embraced and gentle-faced
would make mine glow
I fear only time knows,
but time has not been kind
each passage a newfound wound
each promise, a broken oath
that follows from womb to tomb
that hurts to love to loathe
I have not wished to live by song
To twist your words sweet for me
to feel your touch and still find longing, in such sacred company
I need no artist to be a muse, a lab man to be a tester,
Musician to share the blues
Lovelorn to rot, to fester
I only want my son of a preacher man
Fog
Fog engulfed me
Fog thick and cold
Fog stole my sight
Fog freez’d my eyes
Fog hid something
that terrifies
Hands were reaching out searching
Somewhere out there it’s lurking
Rapid quivering my hands, feet, whole body quakes
Something awakening
Panicked and dazed, my head it aches
Though Fog has blurred all space between
I know what I heard what I have seen
Intoxicated by misty dew
I have discovered the murder clues
Fog trapped me no clear escape
I scream and cry in pure blind rage
I scream and ache and drown in shame
Fog has trapped me, in the monsters maze.
In acceptance of my fate,
I feel the cold concrete as I lay
down on the ground
but make no sound - inhaling fog
And I admire the maze the monsters design
Hands on my face as it’s face meets mine
Dinner time
It’s chipped claws rip into my skin
And tears me apart limb by limb
It’s heavy teeth shatter my bones
The crisp snap makes the monster moan
It must’ve been starving
No piece of me left
No blood, hair, eyes teeth or flesh No clothes, thoughts, sound or pain
Yet in the void
Fog remains
High as a Kite
I fly a kite to greet the stars
The sun she kissed my left cheek
burning bright, she scolds me
the guard that keeps the gods
I feel her glow, but not her blows
For my song delights the flowers
they stand and bloom when magic leaves my core,
Entranced they dance for hours, and lift their limbs to greet me at the door
The birds they sway in flocks
both hugged by the wind
Their beaks speak but they sing in squawks, perhaps that’s why they grin
We pass the shore,
the matte flat of the rocks calms me
The plush Cush of the grass kneeling, my golden string reeling
My belly dropped, my song paused
rays stinging my sight
Nails flayed in the sky
as the sun laughs, my song is gone
As each second passes, the land revealed the blues,
Her violence in her wind
Reclaiming all her kin
She yanks me by my limbs
And makes me her dessert
This gift she steals for earth.
Janesia Stillwell is an Australian writer from Melbourne. A political science major at the university of Melbourne, She fills her time by watching hour long video essays and of course writing. Her poem ‘through the looking glass’ was published in ‘The Crow Journal’ of Ginninderra press.
