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A poem for grim city AMs
A poem for grim city AMs
Living deep in an unfamiliar PLACE
When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
Carl Sandburg
waking up
outside there is a wailing, staggered footsteps and a crackle of broken glass inside I am considering if the brown at the bottom of my mug is worth washing out or if the take-away from this afternoon is worth eating cold in the end I decide…
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A poem for lazy mornings in the countryside
A poem for lazy mornings in the countryside
A silly little ode to bread
“Since when,” he asked, “Are the first line and last line of any poem where the poem begins and ends?”
Seamus Heaney
The Patchwork of Fields
Trees with branches like antlers and others that are tall, thin: a parade of young and old soldiers to attention, dressed in green. Few out of hundreds sway in the early morning light, older brothers holding them steady.…
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A poem for rage
A poem for rage
One poem, one theme
Poets deal in writing about feelings and trying to find the language and images for intense feelings.
Carol Ann Duffy
Thunder in Red
Sweeping, sick, swathes pulses of blood pop at temples and up into frays of burnt black hair that bristles. Tongue crackles like a thunderstorm, eager to strike, to kill, to bolt out words faster than a thought.
It has been too…
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