C S Hughes
C S Hughes grew up on the edges of sea glass cities and dust red towns. He has been published online and on paper. His work tends to the lurid, and sometimes to the ludicrous, but seeks beauty in all its ecstasy and artifice.
Here On Midsummer’s River, We So Elegantly Fall
At your party I will stand Compliant as a hat rack Carefully holding parasols and scarves (An iron kind of evening — neither cool nor bright)
We See An Angel
She says do not let go my hand In the panpipe voice She stole from birds As if they were her sisters I think, I think I’m flying
One Evening Overwhelmed By Hummingbird Wings
i was not quite half way there when i died under yellow trees with that glaucous scent that always made me think of hummingbirds
He was a skinny, handsome Indian man with a goofy smile and kind eyes. "Now this shouldn't be an issue," he said. "I've helped people with all sorts of problems –smoking, weight loss, anxiety, depression, fear."
Mirrors & Slivers
The Starspikes are so tall as to cause one to imagine that, from space, they must appear as a beard of icicles depending like an old man's goatee from the round face of the Earth. But, of course, they are not so tall. Still, the mirrored, three sided spikes ascend so high that, on clear days ball lightning gathers around their tips, curious sparkling entities that discharge to earth in a violent flash that runs the length of the spike.
NASA Photographs Capture The Monsters Of Pluto
The New Horizons spacecraft has carried a collection of imagers, spectrometers, radiometers and telescopes around the sun, past Jupiter and on, some 4.79 billion kilometres in nine and a half years to the farthest shore of our solar system, where its eyes have measured rays and thermals, plasma and colour, solar wind, atmosphere, chemistry, geology and dust.
There is something in the fabric of old, silent places. Time seems to lay a patina on them, made of moss and lichen, of slow growing things, decay, stains and stillness. The stone, the wood, the earth, even the air holds something more than beauty. An immeasurable presence, a union of time past with the slowly burgeoning moment.
Shallow Water Navigation
A poem is not made of glass Like a man, transparent As tropic reefs Where bone-bare coral waits To tear unwary steps Distorting time and light