Today’s choice
Previous poems
Sally Michaelson
Summer Job
Heads under bonnets
mechanics catch a wiff
of a girl passing
half-hearted whistles
follow my skeleton
into Accounts
my Friday wages
will buy Mum and Dad
a market stall tea set
with piped dragons
all venom, hissing
icicles of flame
Sally Michaelson is a recently retired Conference Interpreter living in Brussels. Her poems have been published in Ink Sweat & Tears, Lighthouse, Algebra of Owls, The Bangor Literary Journal, Squawk Back, Amethyst, and The Lake. Website: www.sallymichaelson.com
Angela France
Driving into low cloud everything fades
to a blur, all colour and definition leached
David Van-Cauter
Two calls this morning – flood of tears…
She cannot eat a single thing they give her.
Dan Stathers
A long way from the quags of Nova Scotia,
stowaway beneath the cherry laurel thicket,
more triffid than cabbage . . .
Sarah L Dixon’
I fall in love with Leeds Coach Station, Holts pints,
a shared fish supper from Arkwrights.
Simon Alderwick
1
in the beginning,
there was light.
and light said:
let there be god.
and god meant: everything
touched by light.
Tim Kiely
The Abbot of Kosljun Monastery Considers the Cyclopean Lamb
He suppresses a shudder as he summons
the brothers from the library; shows…
Rebecca Bilkau
Travel essentials
A rucksack isn’t a kitchen dresser, or a view, or
a whirl of Christmas Market cinnamon, sweet almonds…
Sylvie Jane Lewis
Water Damage Noted 06/24
An old lady enters, soak-dizzy,
puts her returned book on the trolley.
Leigh Manley
Should You Wish to Imagine Poetry in Ventricular Ectopy
False starts, I’m aching to roll with you,
though you catch me stumbling off beat latches…