Tuesday, 19 November 2013

Apple Cinnamon

We pawned our halos for
cheap whiskey and cigarettes,
throwing our days in dumpsters.
The street lights choking on night,
we walked like kings counting
 the plastic reindeer and inflatable
snowmen that littered the yards.

Our backpacks filled with all the
rejected holiday fragments from
the Target on 5th Ave and Main.
A snowflake ornament missing a
piece, two strands of Christmas
lights and an Apple Cinnamon
candle with a cracked glass jar

Not good enough for the cookie
cutter houses but perfect for us
gutter snipes, making a home for
ourselves in a vacant garage hanging
our found treasures. The snowflake
swaying defiantly in the california
heat amongst the stars and moon.

While the colored lights kept the
dark at bay and the apple cinnamon
surrounded us like a blanket, we sang
every carol we could remember from
the movies and you swore that if
I listen hard enough, the whiskey
sounds just like me on a cold night.

Celebrating as the unwanted children
of the city, dawn broke and we ran
to the ocean, feeling sorry for all
the poor souls who thought it was
only ever about Santa and we swam
splitting waves and yelling at the top
of our love drunk lungs as the rest slept.

That was the best christmas,our Christmas.
You said none of us will live forever
and this time of year anywhere feels like
home, cement could be cozy if we wanted.
I wanted to keep you but you vanished
never one to break words or disappoint
letting the world swallow you whole.

Disappearing underneath the needlepoint
constellation that decorated your forearms
you've become a distant memory ignited by
the scent of apple cinnamon and the broken
snowflake, as I sit in my dark room drinking
to what was. And I swear if I listen hard enough,
the whiskey sounds just like you...

Draft Two

Monday, 11 November 2013

Last Letter Home

My Dearest,

I've sent countless muddy letters
while trying to decipher words
between the shrieks of shells
and the sudden spit of sniper rifles

We came in thinking we’d have
evil backed into a dark corner
only to realize we are here
simply because we are here

Fighting machine gun bullets with the
breasts of men to claim cratered land
Oh, what I would give to walk on solid
ground instead of mud and duckboards

Tired of war dirt and rain drenched blood
Our rum rations no match for the heavy
stench of death and rotting sandbags
It barely challenges our recent memories

Graves in foreign fields were not on the
minds of those who flocked in the thousands
in hopes to flutter hearts, impress neighbours
and get a crack at the “Almighty Kaiser” himself.

I write with numb and brittle bones tonight
Will you remember me when the time comes
for telegrams, drawn blinds and the columns of
names that will fill the pages of your newspapers?

By: Celeste Medbery  27-oct-13Written for Remembrance Day.

Saturday, 2 November 2013


Thoughts pound down like heavy rain
causing thunderous headaches of a beat.
Lightning flashing bright, intermittently,
revealing the faceless shadow people
who dwell in the dark corners of my mind.
Using suggestive velvet voices, incessant
in their malicious and venomous invasion,
they wait patiently in my drug induced fog;
feeding off my sanity like parasites;

and infecting my intentions..

Written for a contest on brevity and insanity.