Today’s choice
Previous poems
Alison Jones
Redwood
The mineral kin would not know me now,
I used to be a cone-coiled code, I mean,
I was biding, to flicker into joy.
Each day I emerge a little, root deeper,
canopy wider, longing burnishing
my hardening trunk.
Distance from the ground has become
a way of reminding myself,
how the earth turns her swaying tilt,
and I still have years to stand in the forest,
my tongue speaks leaf peripheries,
words filling into fine cones,
in the obedient cycle we use to build our children.
I still need the astonishment of rain,
the challenge of a wild flame’s tongue.
So I can do my work, silent as snow,
knowing wonder might look like this,
and dream I am glimmering into fragments of sky.
Alison Jones is the author of two poetry pamphlets, Heartwood (2018) and Omega (2020). Her work has appeared in Ink Sweat and Tears, Poetry Ireland Review, Proletarian Poetry, Barren Poetry, The Broken Spine, Field Magazine, Spelt Magazine, and Dust Poetry, along with many more.
S Reeson
only now is it apparent how
dishonouring a body is a crime
Paul Connolly
At Aber Falls
he felt nothing
water sheeted
past grottoes
snakes of tributary
lazed along
Cindy Botha
I notice her because she doesn’t have a dog
in an afternoon of dog-walkers
Alex Josephy
the goddess of the library
extends in cloth-bound curves
along a lettered shelf
Ben Banyard
There were hundreds of them, all in period costume,
each generation explained who they were,
queued like at a wedding reception to greet us.
Lindsay McLeod Espinoza
Venus passed over the south node of the Moon today
Ilse Pedler
She offered up her linen bag to me, said
pick a shell my lady and I’ll tell your fortune
Sue Butler
Squirrels have beheaded all my parrot tulips
and the supermarket is out of chilli, also tabasco sauce.
Cormac Culkeen
the sun is a
white coin
lifted
from the sea