Today’s choice
Previous poems
Erwin Arroyo Pérez
New York City at night
Here, in my Manhattan room / insomnia tugs at me like a half-closed taxi door / letting all the echoes in / an ambulance carries the last breath of an asthmatic man / a few blocks away, a party spills over the rim of a rooftop / champagne fizz bleeding onto fire escapes / a wasted man howls into an empty alley / a tourist family dreams in postcard colours / a night-owl jogger runs in sports gear / three floors down, a man folds his infidelity into cheap hotel sheets / across the street, a college student—eyes hollow—types his assignment on a bioluminescent screen / not far, an orgy unfurls its limbs in the unseen crevices of a clandestine club / the first cry of a newborn ricochets throughout a hospital and fuses with the clamor of the street / somewhere, a woman pisses on a plastic stick and learns she is pregnant / and the city is pregnant too / with cosmopolitan offspring that breathe among the skyscrapers / within the lungs of New York City’s crowded womb.
Erwin Arroyo Pérez is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief at The Poetry Lighthouse. He also teaches literature and works as a translator in Paris. He holds a Master’s degree in English Literature and Linguistics from Université Paris Nanterre and King’s College London. Erwin’s poetry has been published in Paloma Press, The Nature of Our Times, The Winged Moon, Wildscape journal, Respublica Politics, Nanterre University Press, Des Nouvelles Heloise, and other American, British and French literary magazines. thepoetrylighthouse.com
Paul Fenn
To impress you, I became
a seven-year-old son of Sparta.
A little hard man, crayon
marching down the page.
Ruth Aylett
God had been playing computer games
for a chunk of eternity when he became aware
he’d left creation in the oven for a long time
Chris Campbell
The View From This Hospital Window
I admire an empty bench for hours –
then a glum couple sit to share strawberries.
Patrick Deeley
He sees a stainless-steel spoon
burned off at the base,
a bunch of wild flowers dropped,
Eliot North
Explaining to my little man
about proportion,
he responds with feeling:
a picture of daddy
with thousands of fingers.
Jeanette Burton
What is this, a family outing?
Yes, dad, that’s exactly what this is, I want to say to him
as I open the car door, climb into the front seat,
remembering those marvellous trips to the tip at Loscoe.
CS Crowe
Lines He lived next to the funeral home with his three daughters. A cherry picker beeps in the distance. I cannot see it, but I know the light is red. Who brings roses to a funeral? Rain rolls down window glass, but not here, only somewhere in the...
Carole Bromley
I don’t know why I went,
I’d already heard about the time
a colleague’s husband turned up
at the staff barbecue and punched him.
Lisa Falshaw
A mother teaches her Neurodiverse child colours
What colour is the dog?
The dog is brown.
Can you see the brown dog?