Today’s choice
Previous poems
Adam Kelly
Drumbledrane
Determined, you smash against the window
I have to admire you in your striped suit
All the worries of the world pass you by
Just to keep the Queen and Pooh bear happy.
Masking yourself between odd magic tricks
The perfect worker, never to grumble
Solitary seeker of golden hued wealth
But, always, sharing the spoils with friends.
You belong to spring, foot soldiers marching
On, after the vanguard of primroses
Occupying the high hedges, a new
Start and promise. Always a little bit
Terrifying, as new starts really should
Be. To buzz close and then quickstep away
The threat of a sting always close by
But the window is science fiction to you.
A problem beyond your capable smarts
I wait two minutes till you start to dose
Shimmy you out with an old magazine
Air hits your senses and, God! Watch you go!
Adam Kelly lives in Devon and has written poetry on and off for a few years. He has recently been published in Sideways Issue 11 and has also appeared in The Dawntreader from Indigo Dreams.
From the Archives: Dipo Baruwa-Etti
Seats
Before a table of white
People, I stand with ballet
Slippers strapped/soft soles
Head pointed towards the angels…
Ian Harker
The first night you lay down your head in London
there is hawthorne between your sheets.
Julian Bishop
He emerges at nightfall, lights a solitary votive candle//
prostrates himself at her scuffed toes.
Jon Miller
Haul down the ladder and you’re in
under a skylight casting a blue dream.
Philip Gross
This is the song of the cells’
soft throb, the quivering coherences,
their shuffling the profit and loss
of life, to have and to hold.
Jenny Hope
No man can hold me.
See –
I blur the line between days . . .
Damaris West
In the circle
of its trees
the lochan shines
midnight silk.
B. Anne Adriaens
symptoms she is aggregate concrete and grit held together in a human shape lying on her side knees drawn up flesh tensing to stone and tendons in flames the weight of her body pressed into the mattress leaves a shallow hollow once she’s gone a...
Martin Potter
glimmer blades
the field’s lightly fogged
grass green