Today’s choice
Previous poems
Alison Pritchard
Broad-blotch Drill (a.k.a. Orange-spot Daisy Moth)
By what rough science
were you given
this migraine of a name,
which starts as a spillage
on the workshop floor
and ends so gratingly?
Alison Pritchard is from Derbyshire and mostly writes about local places and wildlife, in particular a specific field she visits to count butterflies. Years ago she had a few poems published and is now writing again after a long gap.
Alex Scarborough
I measure distance in Spotify playlists
so I can’t be trusted with maps.
Myra Schneider
Forget the invisible network of servers which stores
and manages or mismanages data in the unending sky
far above our heads . . .
Sef
The body is not solid. The body is almost perfect.
Jon Miller
The upper floor of the old byre
a darkness made of owl-stare—
its blink drinks you in.
Salvatore Difalco
No green swell this evening
will detach me from my hat.
Annah Atane
That night,
the stars had slept. The wind
silent as something dying.
Jake Roberts
hamlet asked it to the dark night sea
where do waters end and i begin
Miguel Cullen
The pelican is so dovey, with her funny crème anglaise feathers with pink and her split-ended crest and mouth.
T N Kennedy
inside the apiary it is always spring
human beings and honey bees cohabiting