Today’s choice
Previous poems
Iris Anne Lewis
A moonless night when lanterns are shuttered
The track leads through thickets, threaded with eyes.
Elusive scraps of dreams, they gleam, flicker out.
Long dead stars pierce the canopy
with pinpricks of white, cold and exact.
I stumble through woods, the path
thick with leafmould, my footsteps muffled.
Something unseen scuttles in the undergrowth.
A harsh bark, owls’ wings brush the air.
Night retreats, dawn flushes the sky. The sun
splashes through trees, braids dark with light.
Leaves cast dancing shade on the path. I walk on,
the woods lit green and singing.
Iris Anne Lewis is widely published. Featured in Black Bough Poetry and Poetry Wales she has won or been placed in many competitions. Her first collection Amber is available from Amazon or contact her on @irisannelewis.bskysocial or X @irisannelewis.
Neil Fulwood
Greetings and Salutations “I’ll know that civilisation has completely collapsed when bus drivers stop waving to each other.” - Joanne Limburg Idle thoughts of a bus driver number something-or-other in a series of the infinite: what if the beaky...
Steve Griffiths
New craft I'm taking delivery of a house that flies. Wish us well, and hope it will respond to our touch. The tyres hum on the tarmac, then no longer as all the senses lift. Pull back the stick. The passing light sets you to navigate. Looking down...
Sarah Davies
E47 I like that morning is a verb - everything doing and being, hiving at the tangled docking stations of perhaps- a hypothetical, taglog Tense, like channelling the multitasking buzzibees, North Circular - overloading zero hours, burned-out...
Michael Estabrook
Glass For obvious reasons the first rule in any art gallery or museum is don’t touch the art even if the works seem to be behind glass Is that really glass he asks the guard we’ve never seen that before and we’ve been to the Louvre in Paris and...
Sekhar Banerjee
Goethals Football field, Kurseong I watch a lonesome Tibetan horse grazing on the Goethals football field ; solitary clouds chew sadness all morning here, as if, it is their staple food at breakfast The starving fog licks the whole body of the...
Niall M Oliver
The Unholy Spirit If Jesus was the type to enjoy a drink, then the porcelain version pinned at our front door would surely be happier than he looks Beneath his feet, a round finger bowl, eternally brimming with holy water. Never a dry-dip in this...
Claire Aster
Red wine fruit flies You came for the pear molasses on my kitchen shelf three tummies full of fruity goodness recklessly rolling around in this deep lagoon without any thought of how you might get out. Claire Aster has always been a...
David Belcher
Ask to know your people better When my father goes to Edinburgh, the hilly streets and crowds of tourists make him grouchy. This is his mother’s country. She is not there, he cannot touch the things she touched but he sees and hears what made the...
Robert Hirschfield
Cheating At Cards She slaps down her three shadows on the table and runs off with my shadow. Robert Hirschfield's poems have appeared in Salamander, Grasslimb, Noon (Japan), The Moth (Ireland), Pamplemousse and other magazines. More...