Moving Out— a poem by Eric Dean

Whatever you were seems more than you have become,

but what you lost was dead weight.

A block of wood, hacked, hewn and beaten

carved and cut down smooth and lithe,

Fat from muscle, claw-torn and eaten.

Will tempered in a wicked womb, writhe

and kick, wander-sick and birth-zealous.

Curiosity choked, hand-bitten and fires

stoked, in a small heart, strong of beat and freedom-jealous.

A slow, scarred shell shed – an old voice retires.

A core burns closer to open air, eyes squint to sun,

nostrils flare and tears run,

blood flows, and you’re the only one

with your hands on the wheel now…

___

The Poet: Eric I. Dean (Tulsa, OK) writes because he enjoys it.

The Artist:  Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles, Florida, Washington, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.

This Ache | by Eric Dean

This ache
This fist that fights the swelling in my chest, whose fingers
Flex and find the softest depths
Of my experience, and there, with immaculate nails
Scratch your name into the muscle of my cardiac walls.
And the blood, coursing hot with your lingering vibration
Passes over the shape of your name there and is reminded.
Slow, heavy beats push it to my toes, the tips of my fingers, and in those nooks
My blood writes poetry about you that I can’t pronounce and
My palms throb with a hunger that I hide in my pockets.
That tainted blood settles in my eyes and
shows your face to me in the texture of fabric and
The patterns of bathroom tiles. It flavors every sound and scent with
Hints of you, and I sweat and exhale your ghost and
Interlock my fingers with it in your absence next to me.

















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Eric Dean  (Tulsa, OK) writes because it's the only language he speaks fluently.