Today’s choice
Previous poems
Terry Jones
Lines Written in Early Spring
The Lake District Tourist Board
has had no input into what
you are now reading, but I so
miss Cumbria in Holy Week;
late March or early April; snow
on the tops or a cold sun vying
with a cold wind; congregations
of chaotic lambs and their beseechings;
but not this year. There is a tug
In my heart that may just be
the reminder of some missed statins
or else a recurrence of the old
twinge as when the M6 northbound
sidesteps neatly west into the A591.
Terry Jones is a retired Careers Adviser living in Windsor. His career included secondary teaching and Career Guidance work in many settings in Further and Higher Education. He has been active in Ver Poets in St Albans, Enfield Stanza and (currently) Reading Stanza. He has been a workshop facilitator and lecturer on numerous poetic themes.
Marc Vincenz
Such a Victorian The bird that flutters reaches out Into time; knee-deep in nerve gas, At the cemetery gates, the children play Like half-opened flowers on a breeze; but, Deep in the coffers beneath that layer of non- Sense all along the...
John Lynch
Diagnosis I make lists for her, fill in the calendar, get her to keep a diary. She’s knitting again, a scarf to start with, reading now too - hides her romances amongst the bedsheets in the linen basket. She stumbles, says, Doris when she means...
kelsey blacklight
i don't need to puncture my body or stain my face or pour bleach on my scalp to feel beautiful. kelsey blacklight (@slntstrwbrry) is a writer from the USA. They have appeared in wingless dreamer and enjoy guacamole, live music, and...
Subitha Baghirathan
Sari shop, Easton A step through a doorway An overnight ‘plane journey A month’s ship voyage Easton to Lahore By pushing open a door. A woman closer to death than birth Lies swaddled in the corner Atop a pile of rainbow-plush rugs Princess and the...
Paul Case
Bridges They push forward, vibrating in their ecstatic skirmish, voices unified over gang choruses, clenched fists raised toward the ceiling. They might glimpse us, on the cusp stage lights’ sweep, hidden like old toys. We’ll be softly nodding our heads...
Malavika
THINGS I REGRET. A professor. My love. Another professor. Her caste. Two countries. Not sure which one. Not eating on time. Not doing sprints. The girl in the street I broke a wind chimer of. Hotel rooms. Not raising voice. Vaccines but unrecognised....
Kari Pindoria
i collect items left behind by ex-boyfriends as if they are souvenirs i count myself lucky and hold my breath in the shower to practice peace on days that feel like a blister i know somewhere children are laughing and you are folding your favourite pair...
Sunyi Dean
Kleptomaniac Lover, all my life I've been lightfingered to the nth degree finagling what wasn't mine, some rings and lipstick, once a dress her sun-drained hair, a hidden glance two books I loved yet never read family heirlooms, happiness (all...
Joseph Ajilore
THE CHILD BECOMES A PARENT She comes bearing gifts and apologies Giving love out of guilt From my days as an embryo, I knew her Whispers in my phone past bedtime Climbing through the window past curfews Teenage angst and my insecurity shows 'I hate you,...