Flight Path

January 9, 2017

the other bunny

An ant crawls across the face of a mirror. But the mirror is not a mirror, it’s the sky: an even monotone gray, flat and dull as my hair in the morning. And the ant is really an airplane, so distant I can make out neither the shape of its wings nor the roar of its engines. It moves in such a straight line that it can’t be an ant; ants are notorious stumblers. Sometimes after my morning smoke, I stumble into the bathroom and stare at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror, wondering why I’m still here.

confrontation
face-to-face with
another day

Elizabeth Alford

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O night divine – Jane Burn

December 26, 2016

Abegail Morley

O night divine,

bring to us a settle of wished-for snow. Bring ease
to aches, balm to wounds, calm to heads. I feel them
out there – folk who still watch the sky for Seraphims.
Hassled parents cajole their sky-high offspring to bed –
Santa is watching! They might do as they are told. Some
will get what they wanted. Some will get socks. Some
will get nothing. Someone is sleeping rough in the cold.
Each year goes quicker – January is December in less
than a blink. Superstores train us to think it’s coming
for you! bring it on! Bugger the cost. Some turn their backs
to the madness, remembering what, or who they have lost.
A Nativity of tinfoil wings. Dabbings of tears from cheeks
at the tea-towelled shepherds, lisping Magi, tinsel haloes –
Silent Night sung by Key Stage 1. Spare a thought
for Miss Crombie…

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Winter by Wendy Pratt

December 15, 2016

Abegail Morley

Sheena1Artwork: Sheena Clover

Dog walk on Christmas day

First light, there is the sunrise;
a thin lip of white, warming to colour
in the grey lane. And my dog knows
no difference between this day
and any other. The sheep rumble
in their woolly world, or lay
like granite ghosts along the hedgerows
and the stars fade to blue in a sky
pink enough to warn shepherds.

On main street the delicate magic
of Christmas lights blink against
a new dawn. The village Christmas tree
bows gently in the breeze. The pub
and church are sleeping still,
but some houses are waking,
some children are up, some parents
are bleary, bolstered by coffee.

Other dog walkers raise a gloved hand,
touch their hats, smile and wish
the Christmas day upon us. Any ill will
is drained away with the dark. It is like
love being passed hand to hand in…

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Wild Boar on Christmas Day – Ronnie Goodyer

December 15, 2016

Abegail Morley

Wild Boar on Christmas Day

We walked into the Christmas morning,
shadows of the trees left russet, delaying
the evergreen paths for another moment
in my life-walks with a collie. This time
his chosen offering to Gaia was a yellow
rubber ring that hung from slightly parted
jaws and had done for most of the morning.
Collie grenade.

Along the cornflake leaves and sparkling
mud, crisped by the night before Christmas,
we were just above the M.O.D. fields when
a louder-than-customary rustle heralded
the entrance of a wild boar. Morning patrol,
the male emerging to stand across the path,
just his protecting frame barring us invaders.
Tank pig.

Still, with his impasto red-brown armour,
his spine bristles erect, his regiment
snuffled behind to the camouflage bracken,
three smaller recruits still in their training
uniform of mink stripes. He rejoined them
on their elliptical circuit, semi-ungulate
tracks left on the softer…

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‘Rose Petal Jelly’ by Angela Readman

December 5, 2016

David Mark Williams

November 29, 2016

The Open Mouse

Buddha Man on the Beach

Conspicuous in black trousers
and crisp white shirt
among the early birds working out,

he walks the promenade to the measure
of a slow, deliberate breath.
On the beach he becomes

a seated figure in an orange robe
to face the sun sliding free
of the wooded ridge.

Let me burn, his body says,
let these bones show white as an x-ray.
He offers no target.

There is nothing but the moment
which itself is nothing,
wave upon wave, breath after breath.

When the boat arrives
chugging close to the shore
to jet wash the pebbles, he does not move

and the boatmen do as they always do,
spray either side of him,
leave him there on a long dry line.

Copyright © David Mark Williams 2016

David Mark Williams lives in Castle Douglas, south west Scotland. He has won prizes for his poetry in…

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The most read poems of 2015

November 29, 2016

Two poems by Tess Barry

November 29, 2016

“The Invention of Butterfly” Christopher James (Ragged Raven Poetry)

November 29, 2016

Emma Lee & Paul Lee's Poetry & Stories

This wonderful collection is infused with and sustained by an ebullience that, at times, is almost exhausting.  Too grounded to be surreal, too substantial to be conceits, dense in content but light in touch, many of these poems are written in the style of comic magic realism.  The sense of delight they carry, their wit, inventiveness and warmth, are overwhelming (from “Cold Storage”):

We are currently seeking a Writer-in-Residence to spend six months
in Antarctica with the British Antarctic Survey,
…You will be able to rhyme
‘crevasse’ with ‘ice age’ and make it sound convincing.
…Poets must know at least seven words for white.
You shall not quote from Captain Oates for the duration of your stay
and may only imitate Frankie Howerd on birthdays and feast days.
…Short-listed candidates will be invited to attend a selection centre
north-east of Kilbride, to test the effect of low temperature on…

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Extrapolation by Angi Holden

November 28, 2016

I am not a silent poet

I was in the chandler’s the first time it happened.
I’d gone in to buy a cleat, so while the staff were busy
I cruised round the aisles. The lad with the ginger hair,
the one who knows the tide tables and the weather forecast,
was helping a father and daughter choose a life-preserver.
The ones they’d already tried lay scattered round their feet,
discarded, like those abandoned across Greek beaches.
And as the child bounced between the shelves,
the orange jacket tied snugly around her small body,
I saw her bobbing away from the boat, her mother
calling her name, weeping into the salt water.
Now it happens all the time: in the street,
in the supermarket, in the school playground.
I see children, even the lucky ones in life-jackets,
drifting just out of reach, swallowed up by the sea,
bone-chilled, to be washed up on some distant shore.

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