Today’s choice
Previous poems
Gwil James Thomas
The Art of Walking Nowhere
Terrestrial locomotion
across concrete,
the inverted pendulum,
moving flesh and boot –
the touchdown
softened by slightly
worn inner soles.
Fascinated by gum stained slabs,
I sidestep snails and ants
and cut through the park,
before I cross a discarded plank
over the puddle to the exit –
some risks pay off,
if we can just keep moving.
With the sun on my body,
I shoegaze without sound –
going nowhere in particular.
When I’m dead –
even this I will miss.
Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician from Bristol, England. Over the years his poetry has been published by Tangerine Press, Vipers Tongue, Paper and Ink and River Dog Zine, amongst others. IG: @gwiljamesthomas
Adam Kelly
Determined, you smash against the window
I have to admire you in your striped suit
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. . .
Miriam Swales
I’m waiting for news I don’t want to talk about
and scrolling through old photos to escape.
After some swipes, I see you walking away.
Chris Hardy
The night before we left we smoked opium
for the first time and didn’t sleep.
Angela France
Perhaps some small creature fallen
from where it should be. I am unsure
whether I saw it move.
Adam Horovitz
We cannot update you yet, other than to say we are caught
in a doldrums between stations and that your father can wait
as he has been waiting these past two years . . .
Sue Spiers
A woodpigeon calls
his five-note matins.
Petals ratchet wide
as the sun rises.
Alison Jones
Distance from the ground has become
a way of reminding myself,
how the earth turns her swaying tilt