Today’s choice
Previous poems
Toby Cotton
Napsack
A blustery day –
the wind too strong for kites
or for lifts to the sky.
“To a thoughtful spot,” it cites
and pins me to the earth.
A dragonfly perches
atop a little asphalt hill
but zips off when the hill twitches
and sniffs the air.
“Perhaps, it is thataway?” suggests Pooh Bear.
A sand-swimming golden mole,
Cryptochloris wintoni,
has resurfaced after 86 years
hiding in the ‘thought extinct’ subsection
of the desertified dunes.
Exasperated Owl sighs. “How about
this one,” he posits to Befuddled Pooh,
“What do you get if you move
the ‘h’ from the end
to the beginning of earth?”
Wondrous thoughts wander through tunnels.
An unmarked bend masks a dead-end
hung with a huge landscape.
High up, honeypot ants dangle
their distensions and echo a riddle around.
“Huh?” says Pooh.
“Precisely – ‘h'” confirms Owl.
The bear with his seemingly head of air
scratches it ponderingly
and glances about for a clue.
Wild thoughts thunder through wheat stubble.
A daring russet dog is bounding loudly –
a big bad wolf outstripping its pack, clacking at –
hearing a whistle it turns on its heels
and transforms back into the teddy bear.
“A biscuit?” enquires Pooh,
peering down into the straw-strewn sod.
“Always thinking with your tummy,”
scolds Rabbit. Owl warbles
“A worthy guess, but now think laterally!”
The thought trees slough off their skins.
Tiggery leaves zigzag zoomily
across a hundred acres of wood,
crocheting a quilt over the broad bed of earth
and tucking themselves in.
Pooh rootles through the gold litter
and comes up clutching a
part-wheat-part-meat heart-shaped treat.
“Pooh’s got the answer!” hoots Owl.
“I do?” queries Pooh.
A raincloud scuds up and flurries down,
splashing the meandering moon.
A donkey drags a brash brush,
sweeping up the setting sun.
The dog is licking my face awake.
Owl concludes, “When you move
the ‘h’ from the end to the beginning
of earth, you get heart.”
Solemnly nodding, Pooh adds
“And rounded is quite grounded.”
Toby Cotton is a poet currently pursuing an MA in creative writing at the University of Aberystwyth, Wales. His work appears in Pearl Press, Wildfire Words and Boundby and he helps to edit GossamerWight Literary Magazine.
James Coghill
the undershrub, shored up,
stakes its waspish claim,
its hereabouts
Peter Bickerton
The gull
on the meadow
taps her little yellow feet
like a shovel-snouted lizard
dancing on a floor of lava
Lydia Harris
ask this place
ask the silver day
the steady horizon
the self-heal the buttercup
the hard fern in the ditch
ask the bee and the tormentil
Seán Street
Dogs in spring park light
pulled by intent wet noses
through luminous grass
Becky Cherriman
What does it wake me to
as sky is hearthed by morning
and my home warms slow?
Mark Carson
he dithers round the kitchen, lifts his 12-string from her hook,
strikes a ringing rasgueado, the echo bouncing back
emphatic from the slate flags and off the marble table.
Elizabeth Worthen
This is how (I like to think) it begins:
night-time, August, the Devon cottage, where
the darkness is so complete . . .
Elly Katz
When naked with myself, I feel where a right elbow isn’t, then is. I let my left palm guide me through the exhibition of my body.
Laurence Morris
The night of his arrest I climbed a hill
to find a deep cave in which to hide