Today’s choice

Previous poems

Antony Owen

 

 

 

Meaningless sex
Twenty- something sex are bodies.
thrown down like sophomore prose.
Unedited nonsense that almost meant little.
Look at our quarry of pointless stars.
Davy-lamps in solar system of death
Noone writes about God when she rested.
I just stamped on a ladybird because I could.
Felt the crunch through my Adidas sole.
Felt an echo through my overkill death.
Last night I watched Jack die in Titanic.
Rose had plenty of room, but he was poor.
I think all know the ocean has no heart.

 

 

Antony Owen is from Coventry and is not important but tries to write about important things because it is important to do that.  www.brokensleepbooks.com

Dharmavadana

She barely glances at you when you chink
your spare coins in her upturned cap, but still
spreads a spell among the pavement footfalls,

Tim Dwyer

      Shedding Annamakerrig It begins high up the chestnut tree with leaves on the twigs on the tips of branches where sap has slowed. Turning amber carried by the breeze they touch the earth, rest on the grass where autumn begins   Tim...

Sandra Noel

The sea happens to me today

not because I’m the woman in the bakers
brusque turned rude
or the peaches              still hard in the bowl

Grace Lynn

Sunlight saunters in long, thin wires through the fallow field
of my bedroom. You approach, a migrating heron
in a runny yolk collar and suntanned shorts, a white-light emissary
of hope. . .