To allow us to concentrate on the Edinburgh Festival Contest, we're not accepting any poetry submissions until 13th August. Thanks for your patience.
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My poem’s gone, I’ve lost it
It won’t come back to me I wrote it on the shower door As it steamed up while I washed. I quickly dried and powdered And dressed myself with haste Then hurried back with pen in hand To find the steam all gone. That new demister took it Stole my words and clever rhyme It won’t come back now quite the same My chance for fame has gone. The longest winter week ends
with continued cold weather. Clad in a turtle -neck & blanket, she reflects the setting sun’s rays. The old man in a wheelchair
suddenly recalls the story of Tithonus whose lover Eos asked Zeus to grant him eternal life. But a crucial request she omitted was for him not to age like Dorian Gray and so grew older each cursed passing day. The old man in a wheelchair remembers youth as if it were yesterday yet forgets what was said five minutes ago such is his harrowing condition and now he feels like Tithonus as he wipes away a lonely stray tear and carries on existence....year after year. Our meltdown souls
Inside burnout bodies Hiding from the Great Ball of Fire. The sweat runs down the spine Like ants crawling on the skin... We don't need hell When we have a place In the sun. All we need is pray For rain.
Swollen belly, sticky eyes
And flies, flies, flies And his eyes Hold no surprise That we watch him suffer before he dies. Is this a child of my God My HMV, McDonald’s, Ikea Have I got room for both my cars God My I’m alright Jack, get on your bike God My let’s not drink tap water it’s not pure enough God. How can you, how can we, how can I Watch him die....... But we do. Because you're centred in Love
Love can find you and encircle you Because you speak gently Softness pads your heart Because your heart has filters fine as silver thread Only pure light can enter Because the commerce of your heart is kindness The universe will open its storehouse to you Love and trust Trust in Love
Whisper, my love whisper, come close as the mist creeps in,
With only the night to hear us, And moonlight to dance on your skin. Whisper, my love whisper, through lips turning cold and blue, Scatter your lies in the wind love, As my blade draws the life from you. Gently, my love gently, there is time before we go. Lay ebony hair on my shoulder, Sleep soft in the reddening snow. Louder my love, louder, deceive with your dying breath Your words held no truth in life love, Still I long to hear lies in death. Whisper, dark woods whisper, cold mist impede the moon's glow Keep our resting place a secret, Beneath the crisp white falling snow. Silent, intruding, pulsating, you came.
Took him on the cusp of youth like a thief. Sent voices and lies to make him comply. Rob him of memories, leaving fragments. There was a time he won prizes for me. There was a time when lilting symphony Pervaded the night, Fiddler on the Roof. Passers-by laugh and mock, “Where is your God?” A montage of life’s vignettes filter by. Despondent, bewildered, I make my way. Frigid concrete, silent, cold, looms ahead, Fragile dewdrops trickle on nature’s palm. If I fall on bended knees, implore you, Schizophrenia, would you return my son? And when I gave myself to the Earth
I felt nothing but peace; surrounded in perfect harmony with her balance. And no more did I bear the chains of mankind; heavy and hateful with greed. For she gives and she takes what she needs and desires; fruitful for her children upon her. For there never had been a closer place to the divine; than when I felt the warm breath of the wind beside me. Armed militia
behind enemy lines Just a small cardboard cut-out sign Cops killing kids over the music they play And the media blindly points the finger
The mellifluous tones of a choir
emanates from the old cathedral unappreciated by the falcon and chicks which have made their home in a crevice on the ancient walls. The magnificent falcon flies away, swoops on a pigeon, unfortunate prey. Its wing span is impressive, face fierce with hooked nose, talons yellow and ruthless so there's no escape for the pigeon, a terrible beauty in motion bringing the feast back to the holy nest as another hymn is sung with zest. [After the Florence + the Machine song ‘Choreomania’ (written by Florence Welch, Jack Antonoff, and Thomas Bartlett) as well as Autumn de Wilde’s accompanying photo of Florence Welch] We spin as noon sun strikes the green heart of Stonehenge on summer’s solstice… The world just spins on + on while seasons bleed together. Removing eyeliner enhanced distant stars
lurking inside pupils, framed by violet irises that changed color like flushing fish gill tissue exposed to oxygen, drowning in air. Marie envisioned floaters moving, teasing her apprehension of real and hallucinatory images as annoying as darting fruit flies gnats and mosquitos daring her lens to focus. Glaring at dawn lights, squinting at sunsets Marie’s cataracts flashed and fell like a personal galaxy gravitating towards collapsing black holes of fleeting imagination, discernable sights. I will arise and go now, and go up to the john,
For last night’s curry did me, and I’ve been holding it too long. Sunken, rain-slick rust and steel
cadaver of the ocean; Foundered on the main by riders of the seas of their own glory. And waves and fish and whales splash a fillip to the fools abandoned to themselves and brine, counting nothing here. No-one cares what tongues they speak or how many, or how well; The only voice that matters is Humility. Would it not be bettered
If we lived life in reverse Our folly could be fettered We could consequence traverse We could consequence traverse Our folly could be fettered If we lived life in reverse Would it not be bettered He speaks in wonder to the earth,
through luscious fields of green; bathing in the light of Midsummer sun, through lands one could only dream. Down by the bubbling brook, across the moss covered hills; he waits in forests overgrown, for eyes who do believe. He is the watcher of all life, the guardian of sacred things; he is the Green Man of the woods, who walks behind the trees. And in his cycle of life and death, he turns with him the Earth; each morning and night, each beautiful season, rejoicing with the song of rebirth. A decrepit cabin stands. Aged and descending
extreme decrepitude runs its course. Ten by ten feet of forgotten space. One table and one chair. Weathered with thoughts and dreams of white, metallic and collapsable. A table still standing as a chair lay folded upon the littered ground. Never the study to sit. A cluster of pastel particle boards. A haphazard collection of wilted yellows, pale blues, muted oranges, and cloudy, olive green placed over missing boards and gaping holes vomited up from reclaimed lumbers. Three exposed windows. metal framing and an idea where the glass had once called home all of its fractured pieces long since vanished, returning to sand or lost to spells salvaged fragments Reflections of things meant to be. With just enough for the light to get in Barely enough for my light to peer out. To stand the stillness of hours, lost in thoughts from another time. By the babbling brook
with shut eyes, please listen closely for happy chatter Configuration
Cartooning Inorganic Fruition Fiction Tragic Actor Fact Art Oi O i Birds are heard singing
Fragrant blooms perfume the air Isn't summer grand? |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 
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July 2022
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