Photo by Yulia Polyakova on Pexels

I hear that green

Is the colour of envy.

How apt.

It is the same colour

Of the beautiful coat

That you seem to hate



Hate the buildings and sight

Of Kensington,

The prospect of wealth.

Earth does not revolve

On an axis of quiet colours,

Only green,

Greens, blues, and loud expressions


Bounce off


With the reflections.



“Oy, mate, you off to Kensington?”

You crow,

Huddled in your drab existence,

As we walk

With ease and slickness

Along pavements…


From your boring drabble,

Seated in drab colours -

Drab, not ‘drag’, before

You can compare yourself

To fashion and entertainers

Who would love this coat.


Green and blue…

I probably would fit in

At Kensington…



Photo by Min An on Pexels

I can still remember the day

That I broke my toe.

I think I broke it…

I thought I broke it.

Now I think about it once again,

I may have just bruised it.

I managed to hobble

Through crowds in town

And in silence on the way home,

After a full day,

Of shopping centres,

Cold hard bed frames,

And concerned mothers.



Photo by Scott Webb on Pexels

Covered in coral,

Bumps, warts,

Teeth full of bones…

The opposite

Of a Desert Goblin,

Or one that dwells

In a cold canal…

This one loves the company

Of fish and fangs…

Not a lost snorkeler.

A necklace threaded

With shells

And seaweed,

Clothes design specially

From torn nets,

Ropes floating and strapped

Around the Reef Goblin’s ankles.

Fashionable, not practical,

But who needs to be practical

When food in a wetsuit

Is easy pickings?…



Photo by Sebastian Stam on Pexels

He bears

A forcefield

In his hands.

He bears

A forcefield,

A forcefield

In his hands.

He bears

A forcefield,

In his hands,

In his hands.

It is against

Shocked faces

Of bullies

And folks you could call


He acts as a shield

Against every trend.

He was a voice

In her head,

To give reminders

Even though

He was dead.



Photo by Alejandro Quintanar on Pexels

He walks alone in the mist.

No guns,

Just a knife,

One that is pocketed -

Easier than sheathed.

He loves the cold,

The damp,

And the brown leaves

That rattle

Just like his breaths

In his empty


Skeletal chest.

He will end up in a grave…


But tormented spirits

Are doomed

To a much more





Photo by Alex Conchillos from Pexels

I was an eagle that soared

Over my peers in my free time

Arms outstretched

Craving clouds and warm rays

Over some forgotten canyon

Until the bell rang

Then I was an eagle that watched

Over my peers

Arms folded

Hoping that no one would mess up

That everything would be ok

Until a trip was over

After that I was an eagle that sheltered

Away from my peers

Against the wind and possible threats

Arms shaking

Not wanting to take responsibilities

For everyone else’s choices

Now I am an eagle that chooses battles

Wisely and selected carefully



Photo by Maria Eduarda Loura Magalhães Tavares from Pexels

Please don’t break

Or put out your light

For all the bards have sang

Your songs into purple nights

Please be a home

For me and my kin

Don’t knock down every wall

And prove everyone to be a sin

Please don’t spark

Arguments, tantrums, or Fear,

Debates, ideas, horror,

Not when we hold your hand,

And praise your glow as dear.

Please stay up,

Seated and seared,

Staying up on pillars,

Thrones and revered.



Erika Fischer-Laine

Erika Fischer-Laine

A poet that loves to express herself through pretty words and the occasional spooky tale 🌲☁️