Today’s choice
Previous poems
Marius Grose
Presence of Trees
Until the dead, sucked from leaf mould graves
are rising in forest sap, to make connections
inside strange green brains
nothing will be crossed in, nothing will be crossed out
until the dead poke holes in the sky with their bones
let in the rain to wash our traces, face mask litter
black bladder-wrack crushed into tarmac
messages transmitted will not be received
when the dead reach forest canopies, then
sealed in blue unaddressed envelopes
they’ll post themselves back to the world
until
Marius Grose worked in broadcast television as a video editor. He has had poems published by Dream Catcher, Allegro Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, Dreich and The Storms. In 2023 Marius was shortlisted for The White Review’s annual poetry prize.
Shasta Hatter
Empty Basket
Driving down the boulevard, I see large trees decorated with pink and white blossoms, evergreens tower over houses, trees flourish with spring greenery.
Tim Dwyer
The kitchen window has been
my hermit cell
Cindy Botha
what shows up at dusk
moths of course, pale parings―
filmy, restless
dark swarf of birds homeflitting
to perch-trees
sometimes a hedgehog
nosing leaflitter
an owl wooing from the pines
Vic Pickup
Operation Alphaman
It took a great effort and I had to bite hard on the stick
to push the subcostal muscles aside.
The skin had parted easily under my knife,
though keeping the blood at bay with no one to swab the wound
was difficult. This was remedied with a vacuum cleaner
Julian Brasington
When one has lived a long time alone
and not alone your time become
someone’s history and you have grown
tired of yet another war and the world
has it in for you simply for being
Jason Conway
I heard a rumour that Pandora moonlights
She wears sunglasses in the lounge
knives flexed and ready for battle
Rachael Clyne
Torn
On one side– my heritage
on the other side– their heritage
on both sides– carnage
everywhere– endless grief.
Nick Browne
Woman in the water
I’m no Ophelia, that’s for sure crazy stuff is not my style,
no garland weeds around my head it’s spindrift foam not daisies.
Sally Michaelson
The Ledger
In the left hand column
she writes
He’s married