Zoo

Humanity is never perfect,
but it is all we’ve got.
Imperfect skin,
eyes, red, bloodshot.

Memories are never perfect,
so many times misremembered,
so many people forgotten
but they are all we’ve got.

The cages are never perfect,
windblown, and never swept,
so many counsels’ betrayed,
fewer secrets kept.

The keepers are never perfect,
so much death,
creatures long extinct.

The hammers, the smelting iron,
the pliers, and the welding masks,
always checked,
safety first, first and last.

Downhill

Careful now,
parents shout,
as teenagers leave the house,
and their fleeting traces in the snow,
their trays, shining in the cold winter sun.

At the top of the hill, they look down.
Gathered, no-one thinks is this a good idea?
They don’t think about the concussion,
the potential risk to bones, to limbs,
as they slide down the steep hill,
toboggans with no steering,
and as they reach something like
terminal velocity, at the bottom
they come sliding to a halt,
eager to kick the snow from their feet,
shake blood back into frozen hands,
determined, they look up at the hill,
and do it all again.

Crown Shyness

The tops of trees keep their distance,
although the branches sometimes touch.
And we too can keep our distance,
when things get to be a bit too much.

Coral never grows in unclean water,
the infrastructure needs millions of cell to grow,
but we only see the surface, 
not what goes on below.

All of the unnoticed work, 
the underappreciated people,
making things tick over,
keeping the beast alive,
they need to be noticed,
to be nurtured,
if things are to survive.

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Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter @ benmacnair

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If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like contemporary dark stories and poems, you may also want to check out The Chamber Magazine.

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He is a shadow
Sitting in the
Cold still of the
Night,
High above the
Rest of the world
Quietly watching
And listening
Unknown and
Out of sight,
Witty and elusive
As he glides along
The wind,
His nocturnal cry
Will taunt your
Soul
Like the haunting
Sounds
Of a violin,
Such a proud and ornate
Creature
Kind of mysterious in
His ways,
The wise old owl
Stands alone
Watching you
With a most
Conspicuous gaze.

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Carlos Dickens is a poet and short fiction writer from West Virginia, with 20 years’ experience in writing poetry and short stories, subjects ranging from Gothic, science and rural settings.

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Please share this to give it maximum distribution. 

If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like contemporary dark stories and poems, you may also want to check out The Chamber Magazine.