Tag: poetry

Is Poetry a Crime?

Have you ever considered poetry to be a crime? It seems, since the pandemic, some legislation, here in the UK, has crept in through the backdoor. Read on to find out more.

No Man’s Land

What happens when you get a group of male poets together and ask them to write about being men?

Well, apart from some creative differences, and a little collateral damage, you get a great collection of poetry.

Where one man reflects on the consequences of his parent’s taste in music, another…

Procrastination

Image: Davy D Writer

From behind her veil of dandelion

And daffodil, she wiped sleep from his eyes,

Lulled him from a Winter’s hibernation.

 

There were new seeds to be sown, grassy lawns

To be mown, clutter untangled from sheds

And outhouses, his list trailed across

 

Well thumbed pages. He took another sip

Of tea. Hadn’t he read somewhere, sometimes

It was better to let nature take her course.

Shipwrecked

Between a sun and crescent moon, he stood on deck and filled his lungs. Wind circled in the palm of his hands. Pithy, these thoughts of meditation, cacophonies of bondage caught inside an untranslated meaning of a smile. A man’s world was always noisy. He preferred the roar of cities, the motion of land, and people. He gazed at the shadow standing by the Bridge of Baiae and asked why lakes carry a belly full of sky. Then let his hands fall, like the colour of jade, into uncaring waters.

The Anatomy of a Hare

One paw touched a cold kerbstone. I thought she was a jill. Her form too feminine for a jack. Against the wet tarmac I saw long ears with black tips, longer hind legs, distinguishing her from a rabbit. The fur on her back was dense, brown and grizzled, yellow colouration on her flanks led to a soft white underbelly. Maybe she was a witch? Her eyes were still open; startled as they searched for the moon.

Universal Credit

Saturday, a priest amongst days.

These poor hands receive the descent of man,

My rightful share in an illegal age.

 

I am a writer, not a fighter,

Searching old stories hidden under rock,

Of how angels never made it underground,

 

Then embracing an eleven-o-clock break

To consider whiff-waff and dildrams.

Don’t ask me what I mean.

 

Instead, consider grandmother’s glass eye

And her three hours of secret history.

The nanny state made me. I intend to enjoy it.

 

 

 

Epitaph

Back to the shoreline, you stroked

with reverent fingers, weathered

wet and cold between the eyes

 

My sisters came and picked my bones

 

Caused salty scratches to the skin

A public nakedness for all to see

Soon forgotten as the earth passed

 

Razored

Above Kite Hill, you searched for the right breeze.

I waited, my manjha ready to cut.

Below, an assembly clapped and cheered

As a million eyes were averted

By sordid headlines and Sunday lattes.