Thursday 5 November 2015

2 Poems by Jim Conwell

The Child

His mother is frightened.
And she doesn’t like to feel
out of her depth.
What could you do with a kid
who seems to know
what the Devil is thinking?
She’s taken him to the priest already.
And to the doctor.
There’s nothing wrong with him.
They both agree on that.
Perhaps he’ll grow out of it.


A heavy shadow,
Her legs are snake black
and their slickness
does not reflect the light.
Her toes spread
as the soft mud squeezes
up between them
and she is coming this way with her deadly mass.
The rustle of her hair is like the edge of knives.
The air is sharp
and her name will not come.


Jim Conwell lives and works in London, England. With an original background in Fine Art, he has worked for nearly 30 years in the mental health field. He has had poems published in The Journal,  The Lampeter Review, Poetry Cornwall, South Poetry, Orbis, Ofi Press, The English Chicago Review, The SHOp, Uneven Floor, Turbulence, The Seventh Quarry, Under the Radar, The Frogmore Papers, Blue Pepper, and Elbow Room and has a poem scheduled for publication in Poetry and Audience.

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