Today’s choice
Previous poems
Jennie Howitt
wild cows
Those full udders will slowly burst
spitting milk onto the grass strands. Will roll
down to feed the roots below. Then the weeds will follow.
Weeds will grow next spring. Weeds will unfold
as bulbous udders without holes
– un-milked –
with hip bones wider than a reach
Jennie Howitt is a writer and performer from Shropshire, working on bog and wetland poetics. She recently judged a competition and gave a workshop on bog poetry with the Poetry Society. Their work has been featured in Pamenar Press, Poets Choice, Ariel Magazine, Bedford Square Review, Writers Block, Beyond Words magazine, and multiple Young Writers anthologies. They have won and been commended in various Poetry Society competitions.
Peter Daniels
No, no one is who they think they are,
nor what we think they are, either:
the demon inside is thinking it
and you can’t tell him.
Paul Stephenson
Like one of those horses
on the carousel
going round and round in circles
sliding up and down a pole
Rob A. Mackenzie
Everything is moving. I have to remind myself
it’s a flat canvas and behind it a wall that’s solid
as I am.
Melanie Branton
A vixen or a reason. A
rave. No air, no sex, nor
Charlotte Oliver
On a bench outside Next,
a punctured woman
traces circles in the air with
a pale finger
Peter Devonald
He is bitterest regrets,
dark chocolate, olives and kale,
The Telegraph and Magritte’s
pipe, the treachery of images.
Anne Ryland
Restless two-hundred-year-old village elder,
a ragged playground of words, or is it weeds –
fragments of chant to slaps of skipping rope.
Colin Dardis
I have never climbed a tree,
never broken a bone
and will never walk on water.
May Garner
The house keeps score
in places no one checks any longer.