The March-April First Selected Poet is Matthew Wilson

Please feel free to email Matthew at: richardstokes567@yahoo.co.uk

THE CEREMONY

Salem witches dance by moonlight,
chanting all their spells.
Kissing scheming demons who came
to life from water in the wells.

The Queen has her book bound of hair,
and the best of human skin.
As the moon turns potent red, and
she reads the words within.

Townsfolk watch from windows,
making sure their children lay in bed.
Safe and sound with windows closed,
ears pressed against the word she said.

Salem witches light the fires, and
call their master to victory.
Dancing till the moon has faded,
and sealed their name to history.

JEWEL IN THE SPIDER’S NEST

At night, she came to the window,
to give the world her music.
On the hill, dead men stopped
to listen, collecting round her tower.

The blood moon low, cut through
burned out stars and silenced all
nightingales watching from dead trees.
Alone, the prisoner gave her soul

to each brief symbol, floating over
ivy covered walls to freedom,
as all round her, dead men sat.
And listened to the music.

THE POOR JESTER

Oh, poor Yorick lies in his grave.
This best of jesters, whose fooling days are done.
I knew him well, you know.

Living in his tiny hamlet.
Making jokes, sunny days out of
grey ones that fell over father's kingdom
Since the war, and mistrust.

Now Father is gone and a usurper
sits on his throne with the want of Mother’s eyes.
A son loves even unjust mothers.

Tonight the play begins, and I shall
watch the new king's face
For a twitch, or show of guilt.
I have to know, for the ghost told me I was not mad.

Tonight the curtain goes up.
And I will know.

THE FIELD

The final five stood atop the hill
and lay down their shield.
Needing only swords and promises
that they would never yield.

Their friends were dead, but loyal,
they stood by their lord,
the rightful ruler of this land,
and beckoned on the horsemen hoard.

The lord knew he’d had his day,
the field was littered with the dead,
he bid his men to walk away,
but for once they ignored what he said.

The lord wished them well and shook
their hand as he righted his right crown,
the heathen hoard did scream for blood
and from the hill, came down.

Matthew Wilson is a UK resident who has been writing since he was small. Recently his work has appeared in Starline Poets Association and Sorcerers Signal. He is currently editing his first novel and can be contacted at twitter at @matthew94544267.