Today’s choice
Previous poems
Gwil James Thomas
The Art of Walking Nowhere
Terrestrial locomotion
across concrete,
the inverted pendulum,
moving flesh and boot –
the touchdown
softened by slightly
worn inner soles.
Fascinated by gum stained slabs,
I sidestep snails and ants
and cut through the park,
before I cross a discarded plank
over the puddle to the exit –
some risks pay off,
if we can just keep moving.
With the sun on my body,
I shoegaze without sound –
going nowhere in particular.
When I’m dead –
even this I will miss.
Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician from Bristol, England. Over the years his poetry has been published by Tangerine Press, Vipers Tongue, Paper and Ink and River Dog Zine, amongst others. IG: @gwiljamesthomas
Katherine Duffy
The ferry pushes the sea,
forces a long, white reply
that speaks of where we’ve been
Audrey Cotterell
In a corner chapel of the abbey
I lit a small candle, and sent the flame
as a message only half composed
Dylan Foster
there’s not much you can do
when the planets
are telling you to stop
Jeff Skinner
Can’t hear yourself think only the bass line
of a heart thumping. Your head’s clamped.
Chalice Am Bergris
It is not like an egg cracking
or an exquisite shiver of shattered glass.
Piers Haben
When I lost loved ones last year
I thought my childhood fears would return.
Lesley Burt
There’s a house in a suburb of between-the-wars pebble-dash & bay windows, where the soundtrack is sighs, tuts & bellows, the clash of plates & jangle of cutlery.
Gabrielle Meadows
She gets into your bed
like when she was little.
Flowers grow out of the wardrobe,
moss claims the windowsill
Alice Huntley
I had a leaf in my hair when I arrived
the receptionist thought it was a hairclip