Today’s choice

Previous poems

Royal Rhodes

 

 

Afterlife

Perhaps the friends of Lazarus, who died
and slipped his shroud, on seeing him might swoon
or rush to hear the tales of that beyond
they hoped and feared to face. Perhaps some cried
or shook and got themselves quite drunk by noon.
Or had the cynics laughed and only yawned?
And when he died again, did any weep?
Seeing you again across the room —
laughing you were free of loss or gloom
before the earth’s midnight — had made me keep
the night you asked me both to stay and leave
an anniversary of love and hate.
I thought I should observe my death that date.
I did, But now I know enough to grieve.

 

 

Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught courses on global religions for almost forty years. His poetry has been published widely in England, Scotland, Ireland, Canada, and the United States. He lives now in a rural village in central Ohio and enjoys contemplating the beauty of nature around him.

John Greening

On Stage in a home-made model theatre, c.1967 Glued to your block, in paint and ink you wait for Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life to stop. Smell of hardboard and hot bakelite. The lino curtain’s ready to go up. At which, the straightened coat hanger is shoved and on you...

Kirsty Fox

Winged     Kirsty Fox is a writer and artist specialising in ecopoetics. She writes lyric essays and poetry, and has had work published by Apricot Press, Arachne Press, and Streetcake Magazine. She has a Masters in Creative Writing and is currently studying...

Jason Ryberg

Sometimes I’d swear that
the ancient box fan I’ve hauled
     around with me for
     years is a receiver for
     the conversations of ghosts

Peter Wallis

Dead in a chest,
 are folded matinee jackets, bonnets, bootees and mitts.

Tissue sighs like the sea at Lowestoft,
   always Third week in August

Amanda Bell

We clipped a window through the currant, sat on folding chairs with keep-cups,
wrapped in blankets as we yelled through the prescribed two-metre gap.
Then took to mending – darning socks and patching favourite denims

A W Earl

Doors

My parents’ house became a place of closed white doors,

where sound hung spare and echoes found no junk 

or clutter to rest themselves upon.