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Two Lovers, by David Chek Ling Ngo

25/2/2022

 
Picture
(Photo created by ArthurHidden/Freepik}
apart for a day
two lovers of a kind meet
at the horizon
catching up on what they’ve missed
tales of the sea and heaven

Saturday Sunrise, by Guy Fletcher

25/2/2022

 
A blood-red opens on the horizon,
dark clouds lifting like depression
as stars seem to be scattered
on the low hills of Cardiff.
The Channel emerges into view
swirling, dangerous with a terrible tide,
the Quantock hills on the other side.

The gloom softens but the blood-red sky
is transient and morphs to grey
as people in the city sleep one off
after the rigours of the week.
The peace of the night will be shattered
yet I saw with wonder-struck eyes
the most beautiful Saturday sunrise.

Morana, by Ivan Ristic

25/2/2022

 
Here she stands
all dressed in white
waiting for the spring clean
ready to be lost
again and again
in the maze of green spleen.

Goodbye, by Robert P. Bishop

25/2/2022

 
Trees bend in the wind
Petrels fly south on storm wings
Father died today

Face-to-Face Meeting, by Michael Leach

18/2/2022

 
moments shared between
one magpie and one possum
on these power lines

My Mind (Tanka), by David Chek Ling Ngo

18/2/2022

 
fast clock ticking sound
windows fail to stop traffic
bulbs need replacement
when the mind is empty space
ideas flying in the air

Isolation, by Guy Fletcher

18/2/2022

 
"Nobody laughs at God in a hospital"- graffiti

Ill in hospital, no visitors allowed

to the sound of an ageing man
wailing for his long dead mother.
Strange figures haunt the sad corridors
and the neon lights are always on.
There's the continuous tone of bleeping,
a place for dark thoughts, but not sleeping.

But if by chance there arrives
a most beautiful dream
it is so cruel waking at dawn.
Each person owns their own demons
and must endure isolation
so ignoring good times is a crime
for sickness can strike... at any time.

Pandemic Shift, by Michael Leach

11/2/2022

 
Most weekends now,
I spend more time with the dead
than the living.

A Slave to the Grey Stone, by Alex Blaine

11/2/2022

 
Blank city
walls tell
no tales

Another Pantomime, by Kumar Vikrant

11/2/2022

 
The spider weaves the web, dewdrops glisten
The morning dawns, the fly awakens
Melancholia stretches its shadowy entrails
Dark, abysmal, the stench of despair

Is the nightmare over? Is the realm real?
One last flight remains in the fly; yes, I can fly
Am I the Sisyphus? The fly wonders
Where is the spider? The heart’s tragedy, eternal

Can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move, can’t drink
Yes, something nasty has gripped the soul
The stone rests on the soul; the heart bleeds soundlessly
Sad violin notes flitter through the air into the fly’s ear

Is the spider playing the violin? Is the hallucination real?
Or is it all just in the head? The fly wonders and moves its limbs
Dear spider, please play the cello, the fly pleads
After all, it’s another play, another pantomime

True or False, by David Chek Ling Ngo

4/2/2022

 
She's motivated to seek help; otherwise, she wouldn't have asked for the answer,

she wouldn't have repeatedly pursued the same line of questioning, causing stress,
just to get the conversation flowing,

even when she knows asking the same question won't get her a different answer,

she thinks she's entitled to a response --
​
a way out to release her pain once and for all,
which has been making her cry to sleep every night
and dream dreams that remind her of her insult,

a way to make her feel important again
for all she wants is to hear that everything she’s been told was false --

she knows what to do with the answer if she gets it,

she wants to make sure there's nothing missing in the answer she’s
so that she can complete the picture,

or to make sure the answer she’s is ‘true' —
a different answer from what she wants to hear —
so that she can be set free.

Painted Words, by Alex Blaine

4/2/2022

 
Painted words
that are out
of control
Rhymes that
have lost their
rhythm
The rule-breaking
recalcitrant little
rebel rouser
has no place
for the play it safe
stay at home
poet

    Poetry

    This 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.

    Poems submitted should be
    no longer than 160 words
    and contain
    no more than 16 lines.

    100 words remains the approximate target.

    Please submit using the Poetry Submissions Page.


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