poet russ cavanagh

Warning signals from a face no longer aglow, your streams of nonsense, your endless lies, just bounce off me. No longer music to my ears, we're over. Irrecoverably so. Consider yourself unplugged. For I won't take any more, will not listen to you, my totally radio ex-girlfriend. And even though I might wonder quite when you lost your appeal, how we stopped turning each other on, please know it's truly, madly, deeply fine with me.   Also published at Paragraph Planet . CC BY-ND 4.0 - Russell Cavanagh

Out on the promenade, a small boy stood patiently, if clearly bored, close to his parents as they talked to a wider group of adults. Looking about idly, wondering what to do, he spotted my odd socks. He then stared up at me, wonder written across his face. With a friendly frown and a conspiratorial wink, I placed a finger to my pursed lips, letting him know how one day he too might be free.  CC BY-ND 4.0 - Russell Cavanagh See the story as it appears on the Paragraph Planet literary site .  

Whether lips now kissing others, or souls since laid to rest, I count familiar hearts whom I may never touch again. Left to linger under a metal rain, one washing over my skyline, I weep for every love, each face no longer mine. And as I wait for sunrise this bloodless morning set in another bloody year, dull lightbulbs snap on behind high windows, as a radio manufactures the day's headlines for those still believing.     CC BY-ND 4.0 - Russell Cavanagh  

i wake up from my armchair still drunk but silent in a cool summer night to see my once-upon-a friend and his woman sat opposite looking at me with concern etched over their faces | next i wander in a white infinity curve landscape always ahead as they follow me leaving piles of yellow coins i do not want to find later in the back seats of several stationary convertibles | then you appear most beautiful woman i knew all those years and we are afloat on a raft of a mattress together and utterly alone in our very own intimate darkness where i can only marvel as your red hair shines and your sleeping face smiles in the light of a warm narrow beam that streams from behind pulled heavy curtains | sweet Lord Jesus give me more and tell me what it means ... CC BY-ND 4.0 - Russell Cavanagh Acts 2:17 - KJV 

My mechanical clock says five-thirty-seven as I raise the blind on this light summer morning, Across the street a gull asserts its weight over a magpie and three jackdaws, all of them foraging fruitlessly for their breakfast on a damp patch of pavement next to an overflowing bin. Chased by the gull, mister magpie complies and moves on, as magpies tend to do, while the playful jackdaws seem game for a spot of teasing - for they are used to dealing with bullies. But eventually the third jackdaw gives up and struts away in search of more fertile ground. From behind my open window I ponder which of these different personalities I most identify with (probably that last jackdaw, or maybe the magpie). While I drift through such thoughts a car hisses by and elsewhere gulls cry out in unison like a gaggle of distressed children. Eventually the kettle comes to boil, snapping me back into focus. Black coffee, oatcakes and thick-cut orange marmalade. It's going to be a fine day today here on S...

The pagan spell worked its charm on the sea of ice cream faces now turned away from boat burning and other abominations to board late home-bound trains that will carry their home-bound bodies mostly fuelled by a day of battered fish, soggy chips and diluted beers. These pugilistic Scots will re-tread well-worn arguments, thereby tormenting tired eyes towards salty tears and ultimately into submission. And any of their children, those not yet asleep, those keeping schtum, might just turn face outwards to witness a much higher God displaying the merry dance of his northern lights on this coastal summer night. CC BY-ND 4.0 - Russell Cavanagh Psalm 19:1 - KJV

I've acquired a small dark demon who wears two distinct faces. With one, he will flitter, flutter, not quite flatter, obsequious in his manner. The other conceals a malignant mischievous smile redolent of a lower order. Don't think I dislike this wicked little weevil; au contraire, he's my reminder to abstain from all appearance of evil. I'll even show him these words, prepared to see him wroth, describing how I wish he'd just get lost.   CC BY-ND 4.0 - Russell Cavanagh 1 Thessalonians 5:22 - KJV

Slapped senseless day one then swaddled in sleep, do you know who, what, why, when or where you dream?      Come many, come many, come many, come one to a realm that sits beyond hell unseen, where snakes shake hands dipped in pockets of poison.      And under the milk sky a brass band play tacit, and even a poet forgets to write.      To understand how truth sits above our received wisdom, see the prince of the power of the air spin his lie over this earth.      He knows your days here number no more than a breath. CC BY-ND 4.0 - Russell Cavanagh 2 Corinthians 4:4 - KJV