Today’s choice
Previous poems
Clara Howell
The Basement
The way a halved peach breathes, then rots
from the inside out.
Her tongue, a swollen garden of secrets.
The corners of her eyes
reach toward her burning shoulders.
Clara Howell is a poet born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. Clara finds poetry as an opportunity to connect the ordinary with the extraordinary by putting her most honest and raw experiences on the page. Clara’s work has been previously published in Shot Glass Journal (Muse Pie Press), Anti-Heroin Chic, Cathexis Northwest Press, Route 7 Review and The Orchards Poetry Journal.
Jeff Skinner
It takes ages. Tell me what it is you’re after
she says, when finally I get through.
Annabelle Markwick-Staff
I devoured the Olympics, filled my mouth
and scrapbook with sticky ephemera.
Charles G. Lauder
beneath night’s skin he unearths raw stones
serrated encrusted enigmatic cold
Arlo Kean
we are at a cafe just round
the corner from hampstead
heath & sipping berry sunrise
Paul Stephenson
Goya was an octopus that smelt of funerals on Mondays.
Sundays, the scent of getting ready.
Jessica Mookherjee for International Women’s Day
The pain comes plucked from a field
in a garland of sunlight.
Jenny Pagdin for International Women’s Day
After many moons
I am perhaps readying to speak.
Kate Noakes for International Women’s Day
Each year in March, on the eighth day,
the one we’re allowed to call ours,
slowly, Jess reads our names . . .
Julia Webb for International Women’s Day
hoover witch mum / mum on the rocks / mum’s coach horses / all the king’s mums /