Today’s choice
Previous poems
Frank Phelan
Renegade Voices
I am most visceral
when being disarmed
by a song, a lyric
written and sung…
in the broad New Yawk vowels
of Dean Friedman.
The scowl of Dylan.
The scat and growl
of George Ivan.
Matthew Devereux’s demonic staccato.
Pierce Turner scaling a single word
to a symphony of syllables.
These renegade bastard voices
of unconvention
dismantle the notion
of the perfectly formed,
crafted to within an inch of bland.
The very sheen of it dimming the soul of it.
Blunting the grit and sharp edge
of what it means
to be truly alive.
Frank Phelan is a Dublin born writer living in County Kildare, Ireland. His work has appeared in a broad range of print and on-line journals across Ireland, America and the UK. His work has been shortlisted and won awards the UK and The Republic of Ireland
David Thompson
Scrolling through my inbox I hold down
the shift key, select all and mass delete
briefly feel the repose of the therapist’s couch.
Marcelle Newbold
Hope lies like the edge of a teaspoon, upward facing, a thickness
perhaps enough solidness to knife
through a banana or other soft fruit
Britta Giersche
a wooden door slams shut in my brain
a man perishes in a space the size of his grave from malnutrition eighty years ago
Abby Crawford
When I was born
the house was full
of stones, an old blacksmiths shed.
Rachael Clyne
And if a land loses its people and they
are exiled will a land feel their absence
Tom Nutting
They have been burying us,
not realising
we were seeds
of revolution.
Emily A. Taylor
I move my hand long
so yours will follow, and though
this moment tastes of tequila soda
paracetamol pillowed on a fizzing tongue
amnesia… pull me in anyway.
Steph Morris
No way would they let him keep that tag. They saw
a boy they must rename, must mark
from them, a boy whose limbs folded far too gently,
Eryn McDonald
It is here that the day breaks apart
Like ice on frustrated frozen pond
Here in the grounds of Ashton Court
I wish to bury myself amongst the green