Published in The Lark·PinnedMember-onlyWaiting for NovemberHis headstone verses were writ in wineConstantinople1 min readPhoto by Aaron Gilmore on UnsplashWaiting for November----4
PinnedMember-onlyThe unsaidWind cuts through this January night Slices like a knife through my meagre clothes. Signs on the road hidden by an iron fog The cry of the wind is all in vain Nothing is the same. I kiss you across this black hole in time. In the old be-jewelled spider-webbed…Unsaid1 min read
PinnedMember-onlyJohn Keats 31 October 1795– 23 February 1821Melancholy’s lack of zest written all over his palimpsest: to die at twenty-five to some will hardly seem to have been alive, but for Johnny Keats and the footloose Cavaliers poetry, music, art, tears were eternal. They eschewed self-pity, untold fears. They tried their best to stay alive In a world…John Keats1 min read
1 day agoMember-onlySkin is wearing thinHomo sapiens have out grown their use. Long in the tooth, but not sharp at all They snarl at each other As they queue in the supermarket For the bargains. Humans defame the dignity. Of the wild animals They abuse, flay alive, eat. Dogs, chimps, lions, gazelle. Any living thing on their road…Skin2 min read
Published in The Lark·2 days agoMember-onlyStewardshipPoetry — Desertification1 min readPhoto by Dieter de Vroomen on UnsplashStewardshipPoetry----
Published in Literally Literary·2 days agoMember-onlyNo place for love“The child was declared dead at Gaza’s Shifa hospital, and the health ministry said she suffocated after inhaling tear gas.” Financial Times. At any turning of any year we confront an unholy nexus of fear, solstice, equinox; apex or nadir. We must ride a crest of darkness, accept a drunkard’s kiss as…Gaza2 min read
3 days agoMember-onlyWhen the poet ceases singingThere’s an end to everything: Birds in the trees, music, Plangent and deep, Tempests flaring in the mind of man Foreshadowing that terrible…Cliff1 min readPhoto by Nature Uninterrupted Photography on UnsplashWhen the poet ceases singing----
6 days agoMember-onlyChristmas rosesChristmas roses bloom in the dying of the light But it’s not a rose it’s a beautiful buttercup, slight Like the golden marvels we used to decide Which side our bread was buttered. Do we like butter or not? Was the yellow Reflected on our chin? These flowers resemble The wild rose — poisonous to humans…Christmas Romance1 min read
Aug 6Member-onlyWaking UpWe wake to the rumbling thunder of blood, Pumping hearts, twisted hearts, this shadow and I Squeeze into the thick silences of trees. Soon…Monroe1 min readWaking Up----
Aug 6Member-onlyCHOUGHSMortem sibi consciscere. it’s a shame about the name, but a glorious bird, all the same, the chough; · it’s seldom seen, yet I saw ten this breezy afternoon on the usual beach. standing at the reach of the tide, I marvelled at the ragged rare little flock: red beaks, red legs, conspicuous amongst the…West2 min read
