Today’s choice

Previous poems

Toby Cotton

 

 

 

Napsack

A blustery day –
the wind too strong for kites
or for lifts to the sky.
“To a thoughtful spot,” it cites
and pins me to the earth.

A dragonfly perches
atop a little asphalt hill
but zips off when the hill twitches
and sniffs the air.
“Perhaps, it is thataway?” suggests Pooh Bear.

A sand-swimming golden mole,
Cryptochloris wintoni,
has resurfaced after 86 years
hiding in the ‘thought extinct’ subsection
of the desertified dunes.

Exasperated Owl sighs. “How about
this one,” he posits to Befuddled Pooh,
“What do you get if you move
the ‘h’ from the end
to the beginning of earth?”

Wondrous thoughts wander through tunnels.
An unmarked bend masks a dead-end
hung with a huge landscape.
High up, honeypot ants dangle
their distensions and echo a riddle around.

“Huh?” says Pooh.
“Precisely – ‘h'” confirms Owl.
The bear with his seemingly head of air
scratches it ponderingly
and glances about for a clue.

Wild thoughts thunder through wheat stubble.
A daring russet dog is bounding loudly –
a big bad wolf outstripping its pack, clacking at –
hearing a whistle it turns on its heels
and transforms back into the teddy bear.

“A biscuit?” enquires Pooh,
peering down into the straw-strewn sod.
“Always thinking with your tummy,”
scolds Rabbit. Owl warbles
“A worthy guess, but now think laterally!”

The thought trees slough off their skins.
Tiggery leaves zigzag zoomily
across a hundred acres of wood,
crocheting a quilt over the broad bed of earth
and tucking themselves in.

Pooh rootles through the gold litter
and comes up clutching a
part-wheat-part-meat heart-shaped treat.
“Pooh’s got the answer!” hoots Owl.
“I do?” queries Pooh.

A raincloud scuds up and flurries down,
splashing the meandering moon.
A donkey drags a brash brush,
sweeping up the setting sun.
The dog is licking my face awake.

Owl concludes, “When you move
the ‘h’ from the end to the beginning
of earth, you get heart.”
Solemnly nodding, Pooh adds
“And rounded is quite grounded.”

 

 

Toby Cotton is a poet currently pursuing an MA in creative writing at the University of Aberystwyth, Wales. His work appears in Pearl Press, Wildfire Words and Boundby and he helps to edit GossamerWight Literary Magazine.

Eve Chancellor

        Two Girls on a Greyhound The older girl turns her face towards the window. Hides behind her curtain of long brown hair. Her sister is asleep. They are never going back there. Stepping off the coach, the seat of the young girl’s jeans is...

Ross Thompson

      Errata A boy at school liked to collect the broken nibs of pencils: dozens of fractured graphite tines he kept inside a secret compartment in a carved wooden case. They rattled in his bag as he walked: a constant reminder of shoddy penmanship, of...

Dillon Jaxx

      fossil fast forward a million years or seven ice cream sticky fingers picking up the shell of me nestled in the sputum on the beach tilting me this way and that looking for angles tracing ice cream fingers through the ess that housed my spine look...

Adrija Ghosh

      your flesh is an abacus. i touch every crumb of the morning on you dust it off part you open real slick slow my fingers knead the hard math of you, the science your goosebumps, my abacus beads that substitutes logic. you rosary between my fingers,...

Maggie Harris

      If I was that woman If I was that woman. If I was that woman in the big house with the tall windows like eyes staring across open farmland where the late afternoon sunset glazes the manicure of her lashes. If I was that woman whose Italian...

Rachael Clyne

      What I Asked of Life When I was six, Life gave me cartwheels, bilberry pie and all of us at the mirror, comparing purpled tongues. From thirteen to thirty I pleaded, Give me a Christian nose, legs up to my armpits. And please, stop me having...

Ruth Stacey

      Colour is Distracting Feel the Prussian Blue pushing against the eyelids. Oxide Green touches the arch of an undressed foot. Raw Umber brushes against the neglected fold of an elbow and leaves a Red Ochre rash. Gold and Silver fill the throat....

Smitha Sehgal

      Chutney Music paint the bones of irascible day, braided light, sway of blue mist, island sunrise, yellow bird perches on cordwood, migrant wind, I become a sand house, half-closed eyes, listening to musty ripe poems that hold doors to the last...